Just People
by NotMarge
Summary: All Jimmy Darling wanted was for them to be seen as people. Was that really too much to ask? A Jimmy-centric perspective of the show.
1. Just People

I do not own American Horror Story: Freak Show.

But it's my new dark fascination.

Just People

* * *

He'd tried, he really had.

Tried to let them see. See that they were just like them.

People.

And what was the one thing all people needed?

Food, right?

Everybody eats food.

They should eat food.

He and his friends.

Out.

Like normal people.

In a diner.

Plus, he was hungry.

Hungry for something not cooked in a field tent.

And hungry for change.

So he'd scrounged together some precious coins.

Coins they couldn't afford to waste on silly frivolities such as diner food.

And went to them one by one.

They'd each had pretty much the same initial reaction.

_What? Oh, um, no, I, uh, couldn't. Lots of, uh, work to do around here. Plus, you know, well, um, I . . . _

And he understood, he really did.

Easier. It was easier to hide away. Stay safe in the freakshow.

They accepted each other there, as much as they could.

It was easy.

But was it _right_? Right to have to hide away? Hide like they were ashamed of themselves? Like there was something wrong with them?

No, it wasn't. They shouldn't have to hide.

They were good people. Interesting. Funny, some of them. Clever. Some were even smart, you could see that.

If you only _looked_, you could _see_.

They were just . . . people.

And they, they had been scared.

Scared at the notion of going out and eating a simple _meal_.

Ridiculous, wasn't it?

It was just _food_, for god sakes.

But the truth was, he had been scared too.

Terrified.

Gut clenched, sick and churning.

Deformed hands trembling, head pounding.

Knowing the food wouldn't taste good.

Knowing it would stick in his mouth like glue, like mud.

Knowing it would be miserable.

Knowing every single thing his friends did and said would make him anxious, nervous.

But still, he'd believed he could handle, maintain the chaos. He'd wanted to try.

He'd wanted them, all of them, to have a chance.

Just to be people.

Not normal. Not freaks.

Just . . . people.

And so he'd pushed through it, their fear, their hesitation.

Used one of his many, many talents.

Chosen his marks carefully. Knowing who had the guts, the stupidity, or the desperation to try.

Known who wouldn't stand a chance.

Meep, for example.

_Nope, never gonna happen. Sorry, man._

Even Jimmy felt sick, felt horror whenever Meep did his thing.

So, he hadn't gone to him.

But the others, the ones who did stand a chance, no matter how slim.

He'd gone and he'd done his thing.

After all, he was a charmer, an enticer.

He was not to be denied.

He'd wheedled, he'd cajoled.

Turned on his smile, his dimple, his wink.

_Oh come on. It won't be so bad. It's a nice diner. Everybody's got to eat, right? I do it all the time. _

Which wasn't exactly true. He did it _sometimes_.

_Well, yeah, Jimmy, but you've got those gloves . . ._

_Nope, not this time. No gloves. No hiding. Just us. All together. Just going to a diner to eat. Everybody's got to eat, right?_

_Well . . . yeah . . ._

_So . . . what's your favorite thing to eat? Come on, your favorite thing that you _never_ get here? The food you _dream_ about?_

_Mmm, real, fresh salad. Nice and cold with some dressing on the side, maybe . . ._

_Oh honey, I haven't had Salisbury steak in so long . . ._

_Burgers! With real cheese and fries . . ._

_Meatloaf!_

And he'd watched their eyes light up with tentative excitement.

_Okay, then, let's do it!_

He hadn't asked his mom. She was too caught up under Elsa's thumb and would probably rat them out or cause more of a problem.

But maybe, just maybe when they were successful and things were better, he'd take her to a movie.

She could sit safe in the dark and watch something happy (maybe one of those Disney things would make her smile, _really_ smile) and eat popcorn and let go of all her grimness and concerns and sadnesses for a while.

He'd smiled a little himself at the possibilities for her.

_For them. _

_For us._

_For me._

It wouldn't be easy, he'd known that all along.

But maybe, just maybe, they could do it.

And he'd tried.

He tried _so_ _hard_.

To guide them. To be a role model. A leader.

Gathered them up, talked to them nicely beforehand.

_Okay, we want them to see us as just people. So be . . ._

_Normal?_

_Nah. Just be you. A calm, polite you._

And _they_ had.

His friends.

He coulda cried at how hard they tried.

All washed up in clean clothes.

Polite smiles.

Using utensils.

Attempting to negotiate around napkins.

Saying their pleases and thank yous.

He'd never been prouder of their efforts.

Much different than the roiling orgies (which were a pleasure in their own right, he wasn't going to lie) and the raving supper party he'd stormed out of days before.

His friends, his people.

They'd tried so hard.

The waitresses, the manager, the 'normal' people of the bar.

They were the awful ones.

Openly staring at Jimmy and his friends in disgust. Speaking so hatefully in their short, clipped tones.

_What kind of morons are you people? We'd _never_ be so rude to our rubes, uh, guests._

But Jimmy'd stubbornly turned a blind eye to all of it and smiled through locked teeth.

He was going to make . . . it . . . _work_.

He could handle the cold hate searing his flesh, making his heart turn into a choking rock in his throat.

He, Jimmy the Lobster Boy, could do it.

He'd been doing it all his life.

And his friends, _t__hey_ had been _great_.

Well, mostly.

Until it started to unravel and he couldn't stop it no matter how many smiles he offered up, how many light reassurances he'd offered the 'good' people of the diner, how many winks he'd tossed out.

Paul, ever resourceful and who knew what it meant to truly go hungry, saw no point in wasting perfectly good food. Didn't realize it wasn't good manners to take what was going to be thrown out anyway.

Pepper, slowly coming unhinged with unbridled excitement over meatloaf.

And Dell, good old, bastard Dell.

The most 'normal' looking one of them all.

Causing the most ruckus and disturbance. Storming into the diner and acting like a crazy man, scaring everybody.

Dragging Jimmy out and giving him a beating right in the middle of the street.

Would it have really been too much to ask for him to just ignore them and walk away?

Or better yet, using his normal-looking appearance and demeanor to come in and help smooth down the rising tide of crazy that had been sweeping over them?

Did he _really_ have to make things _worse_, call _more_ attention to their freakdom, shame Jimmy, give him a miserable shiner for his efforts at acceptance?

Apparently he did.

And now he, _they_, were back to being misunderstood, rejected, _freaks_.

When all he wanted was to be seen as a _person_.

Jimmy Darling sighed, took a deep breath, and tried to ignore the pounding in his bruised face.

And went back to sweeping the tent floor.

* * *

**Yay, I can write again! *blows trumpet, dances happy jig***

**Ahem, okay, where was I? Oh yeah . . .**

**The real and true horror of this season (up to episode 2 anyway) is the way the 'normal' people act. And of course that freaky clown, and the stabbing orgy, **_**and**_** Jessica Lange's desperation. But my point **_**is**_**, the 'normal' people are the real freaks so far, man.**

**But I'm a relative noob here in AHS world (my first season and I'm hooked like a fish), so be gentle, yeah? Goodness knows the writers of the show won't be. I've figured that one out already. ;)**

**I added a little 'cause it came to me. But the1upguy was right (thanks, by the way, man, you rock!); it did used to be 1,242. But I can never leave well enough alone. *sheepish shrug**

**Anyway, everybody appreciates feedback. Leave a review if you like.**


	2. Lobster Hands

I do not own American Horror Story: Freak Show.

It is my new dark fascination.

Just People

Lobster Hands

* * *

It was the 'normal' people who were the real freaks.

Jimmy had come to that conclusion long ago.

And it was the same all over.

They paid their money and watched the freakshow.

They smiled, they laughed, they gasped, they pointed, they clapped.

And then when the show was over they returned to their 'normal' lives.

Ignoring the freaks. Pretending they weren't there. Pretending they were better.

They weren't.

* * *

The well-to-do wives of the towns.

The ones who attended the secret gatherings while their idiot husbands were off at stag parties or business meetings.

The ones he'd made scream in ecstasy and pleasure.

He'd see them in town from time to time.

Prim and proper, backs straight and bows tied just right.

_I've seen you as no one else ever has. Not even your stupid husbands, who don't take the time to do it right. Haven't got my hands . . . or imagination. I've seen you. I've seen your eyes roll back and your bodies writhe. I did that. Me._

And he'd force himself to repress a grin.

Never matter they'd never acknowledge his presence if they ever crossed paths.

Never matter they'd patronizingly turn away and avert their eyes.

They wouldn't notice him even if he suddenly burst into flames on Main Street.

They were very diligent in their _not_ noticing of him.

But he didn't let it bother him. Tried anyway.

He knew.

And they did too.

Whether or not they'd spare him a glance on the open street, they'd moaned and pleaded and begged in those hidden dark rooms.

He'd made them cry out to God.

Because for that little time, he _was_ their god.

Him and his deformed fingers.

Those fingers they looked upon in fear and loathing.

And need and desire.

Those fingers they didn't dare whisper about, even in the darkest of corners.

He knew.

They did too.

They paid their money and he slipped out the backdoor.

Though never from their secretly feverish minds.

Him.

And his magical, probing lobster hands.

* * *

The police officers. The 'good' men upholding the law.

Leering, hissing bastards, the lot of them.

The ones that hid behind their badges and their guns and their duty to the civilians.

They were the slimy, slinking monsters.

Not him with his fused fingers or Paul with his illustrated seal body.

_They_ were.

And they pushed and they threatened and loomed until Jimmy snapped and killed one of them.

And put them all in jeopardy.

Getting rid of the body had been exhilarating, that was for sure.

But then more of them just kept showing up.

And Jimmy was getting worried.

All he was trying to do was protect his people.

The twins, those women, they deserved a chance too, didn't they?

They were people, both of them, individual people who deserved a little decency.

Just like the rest of them.

Except not in the eyes of the law.

In the eyes of the law, they were already tried, convicted, and set for punishment.

The law, blind and cruel to the needs and petitions of those not blessed with perfection.

And Jimmy, well, he just couldn't let that stand.

And so he'd stop it.

Over and over again, if he had to.

With his murderous, blood-slick, lobster hands.

* * *

The spoiled rich kids, the ones who got everything handed to them on silver platters.

Like the one standing before him now.

The one with the insane, bulging eyes.

The one that gave him the creeps worse than Meep or any other 'freak' he'd ever countered anywhere.

At first he'd thought the guy had shown up to make an offer for the twins.

And he understood that, he really did. He was curious and interested in them himself.

But they weren't ready.

_He_ wasn't ready for them to become . . . that.

And so Jimmy tried to brush the guy off. Send him on his way. Offer some laidback guy to guy advice.

Which apparently was unnecessary 'cause the crazy guy wasn't interested in that and just rambled on and on . . .

And wanted to join the freakshow.

Jimmy had to think of dead kitties and his bike busted up and the less talented twin's horrible singing just to keep from laughing in the idiot's face.

Or whopping him upside his ridiculous haircut.

He'd tried to keep it light, tried to let the guy see the error of his ways.

'Cause Jimmy Darling was a good guy.

But the guy just wouldn't let _go_.

So Jimmy'd told him as much as he could. About how it wasn't for him. Without revealing too much about the darkness below the lights.

And finally cracked, just a little. Enough to grab one of those perfect hands and plead with the fool to count his blessings and go back to his easy, _normal_ life.

The kind of life that Jimmy would never, _could_ never have.

Jimmy and his freakish, deformed lobster hands.

* * *

So he swept the tent.

And stayed locked up within himself for a while.

_Ruminating_, as the crazy rich boy had so eloquently put it, upon his life.

The freaks, his friends, were good people.

It was the _normal_ people, the ones out _there_, that disturbed him, scared him the most.

People like that almost made him _glad_ to hide out in the freakshow.

Almost.

* * *

**Gosh, they pu****t that one part right at the **_**start**_**, didn't they? And I was **_**not**_** prepared! **

'**Oh hey, Quicksilver! Um, honey, whatcha **_**doin'**_**? *pause, pause* 'Oh, my eyes! I've gone blind!' *Covers face in shock***

**Thanks to the1upguy (who reads my stuff even when he's never seen it, God bless him) and iWritexx (wow, what a glowing response, sweetie) for taking the time to review.**


	3. Meep

I do not own American Horror Story: Freak Show.

It is my new dark fascination.

Just People

Meep

* * *

Screamed. He screamed.

He held the small body in his arms and he cried out with everything inside him.

Wailed and raged.

Meep, poor Meep.

He'd done nothing.

He was innocent, he had been _innocent_.

Except for the disturbing, biting off chicken heads thing.

But other than _that_, innocent.

Dell, that bastard, had found the badge Jimmy'd planted in his trailer and chosen the one person with no hope at all of defending himself. Or even speaking coherently.

Meep.

They'd trucked him off, screaming and wailing and meeping himself silly with fear.

And those jailhouse men, those monsters.

They had torn him apart.

There wasn't a spot on Meep's poor, tiny, ravaged body not covered in bruises, cuts, abuse.

They'd even . . .

But Jimmy couldn't think of that.

Meep, poor Meep.

How terrified he must have been.

Terrified and without friend, without guardian, without safety.

Without understanding.

But Jimmy, _Jimmy_ understood.

Understood it was all his fault.

He'd meant for _Dell_ to take the fall for the copper's death.

The death that was Jimmy's doing.

But Dell, clever bastard Dell, had somehow found out.

And framed innocent, helpless little Meep.

_Me, you should have brought it home to me. I deserved it, not Meep._

But that would have been too easy, too clean, too simple.

Jimmy might've talked, stirred the pot more, caused complications.

But Meep.

He never had a chance against any of it.

He was a sitting, dead, bloody, beaten up little duck.

Dell'd pinned it on Meep and now Meep was dead. And Dell would now watch as Jimmy was slowly eaten alive with guilt, self-loathing, and rage.

He almost felt like he deserved it when the crazy freak clown took him down, locked him up like a rat in a cage.

Made him helpless.

Because that's what simple little Meep had been.

Helpless.

* * *

But Jimmy Darling wasn't been ready to roll over and die just yet.

He grabbed a pair of butcher's shears, rusted and dark with dried gore.

And sat trapped alone with a pounding heart and trembling hands, waiting for a chance to fight himself free.

Or at least die trying.

And then he was saved.

By what, he didn't know.

A man who wasn't there killing a man who was no more.

Surrounded by grisly ghosts of the long dead.

Who evaporated like mist into the deep night, leaving the corpse of the murderous, psychotic clown behind.

And were replaced by the sound of sirens.

Beautiful, beautiful sirens.

Never before had he heard a sound so melodious, so captivating, so spellbinding than the sound of those sirens.

_Stay away from the coppers, boy. Never talk to them if you can help it._

Sure, sure.

But the wailing, shrill sirens overwhelmed his deep seated dread with a flood of tearful relief.

_Oh, thank God. Oh, thank you, God. Come on, coppers, come and get me so I don't have to die here in this stink and filth and horror._

Even though he didn't deserve the saving, he was sure going to jump right up and take it.

Without a blink.

Dead Meep or no, deserved punishment or not, Jimmy Darling was getting the hell _out_ of this deathcage.

* * *

And then that stupid girl, that fortune teller, that blond beauty did the worst thing she could.

She turned him into a hero.

Him, Jimmy.

Jimmy, who'd let them take Meep.

Jimmy, who'd not stopped it.

Jimmy, who'd fought free to save himself, to save her, to save the kids.

Jimmy, who'd gotten brained, strangled, and woken up trapped in a hellish, filthy cage.

The cop asked him questions he couldn't honestly answer.

Not without looking more like a crazy carnival freak.

And drawing unwanted attention to himself.

He wouldn't have talked anyway.

Not to this man.

Because he, with all of his appreciation to Jimmy, hadn't saved Meep either.

He had taken him away alive and returned him, without remorse, dead.

And that was something Jimmy could never, would never forgive.

* * *

And just as he was considering how much of his outlandish tale to tell to Elsa and trying to think past the sweet peck the red lipped beauty had given him, the most unexpected thing had happened.

_They_ showed up.

People.

The _towns_people.

Lots of them.

Elsa strode right out to meet them.

That was her.

She'd face down the devil himself with her silver tongue and her cutting eyes.

And he wondered how bad it was going to get.

He never guessed, never woulda thought.

They, they, _thanked_ him.

Shook his hand.

His deformed lobster hand.

Freely shook it with gratitude and sincerity.

The tiny little girl. She gave him brownies. A whole plate. That'd she made _herself, _confessing she'd eaten one. Only one.

His mind reeled with it.

He wanted to smile, wanted to be the charismatic man he always showed himself to be.

But he was too stunned to do much more than stare and gawk.

And hold those delicious-looking brownies.

And watched them gather around him.

They, they _touched_ him.

With gentle, grateful hands.

And talked. And smiled. And laughed.

With him.

And the others, the hesitant, tentatively hopeful others.

Even Salty and Pepper.

And he finally recovered himself and managed to smile back and talk.

Saw her.

And smiled again.

But in the back of his mind, Meep was still there.

Little Meep, who deserved this goodness more than anyone.

Eager Meep, who never got a thanks for anything. Ever.

Dead Meep, who Jimmy had buried with his own two lobster hands.

_I'm sorry, Meep._

* * *

**Well, there's another one down. Getting tired of my takes on Freak Show yet? 'Cause I'm in heaven over here, just writing away.**

**Thanks to Jurana Keri and iWritexx for your generous reviews.**

**Thanks to DelaneyP12 and charlottechamberlain for adding your support to this growing story.**


	4. The Philadelphia Fortune Teller

I do not own American Horror Story: Freak Show.

It is my new dark fascination.

Just People.

The Philadelphia Fortune Teller

* * *

Girls didn't like the lobster hands.

Well, _real_ girls.

Except the bored, needy housewives and their secret parties.

And in all honesty, they didn't like them either. They just liked what they _did_.

But real girls.

Out in the world.

His hands scared them, made them turn away in fear and disgust.

Carny girls, they didn't care so much.

They were more, well, open-minded.

And more open in a lot of other ways.

That's the way it was, the life of a carny.

You made money with what you had.

And the carny girls had their, to be discreet, _wiles_.

And Jimmy couldn't resign himself to sharing that just yet.

Plus, all respect intended, the females of his troop weren't particularly to his liking.

The candy stripper nurse, she had been fun for awhile alright.

She had enjoyed all kinds of unearthly delights in her time with him and the others. They even had a film to prove it.

Jimmy preferred not to watch it. He hadn't minded being _involved_ at the time. But now to watch it would be, well, disconcerting.

But that, that, that had been business in its own way. Good ole' Elsa. Knowing how to twist a rube so it never could see straight again.

And could never tell.

So that candy stripper'd gone away when Elsa'd done with her.

And that'd been just fine by him.

She'd been, how to put it, so used up after a while.

And Jimmy hadn't thought twice about it after that.

But now there was _her_.

The Philadelphia fortune teller. A spiritualist.

He was feeling more spiritual already.

_Well, he-llo._

Mystic Miss Esmeralda.

Quite a mouthful of a name, even for a smooth talker like him.

Maybe he could shorten it down a bit if he got to know her.

Which he immediately felt a desire to do.

She was so . . . clean.

Blonde coiffed hair, red lips, neat, prim clothing.

She didn't immediately throw herself at him but she didn't seem to be overly worried about him or his lobster hands either.

She'd held her composure with Bet and Dot, met Elsa, _and_ gotten the job.

And asked Jimmy for a ride into town to call her grandmother.

Held his sides as he'd driven. It'd felt nice.

Not only her body close to his back and her arms holding him for safety.

But his fingers.

His fused fingers not smothered up in confining gloves, but free, open to the cool night air. Right out in front of her.

That was the best part.

Even if she didn't show any interest in him, she didn't ridicule him either. And he was just enjoying himself in his own head.

And remembering to be cool on the outside.

She'd even attempted to smooth things down with the pig copper that'd showed up.

Though Jimmy'd been too pissed to care right then.

Running out of gas on the country backroad.

_Of course. That'll impress her, you dummy._

Suspicious, of course she'd been suspicious. Guys were guys, right?

And she didn't know Jimmy well enough to trust him, to know he never gave them anything until he knew they wanted it.

He was a carny, a freak.

But he was a _gentleman_ carny freak.

Still rankled his skin though.

He might be interested in her but he wasn't going to stand in the middle of the godforsaken woods and just take abuse and scorn either, was he?

But in the end, he was grateful he'd been stupid enough to let the bike run out of gas.

'Cause there was no telling what might've happened to those kids if they had driven all the way back to camp and never stopped in the perfect place at the perfect time.

And if she'd argued any less, backed down any quicker, they might've been headed well on their way and missed the screaming, terrified girl completely.

And he didn't want to think about what might've happened to her then.

After it was over and they finally made it back to camp on his bike, newly refilled by the slightly chagrined cop (hey, he wasn't going to turn down a full tank, was he?), she'd kissed his cheek.

And he'd nearly fallen right over.

Right in front of the sneering Elsa.

If he had thought about it much, he'd've known he was in trouble then.

But he didn't.

'Cause he was a hopeful, love-struck fool.

He'd even tried to kiss her before the show.

When she'd caught him practicing his spiel.

And requested to read his palm.

His thick, rough palm. Attached to his hideous, fused, lobster fingers.

_Um, no, I just, well . . . no._

No one ever _requested_ to touch his hands.

They did if they had to, ignored them when they could.

She wanted to look, really _look_.

And what if she saw something bad in his future?

Or looked too closely at his freakish hands.

Plus, he really didn't think someone as clean and bright and pretty as her would appreciate where, well, _what_, his hands had been in.

The fact that they were scrubbed and freshly clean for the show and frequently since then and that particular event had been _weeks_ ago . . .

Well, it was more the principal of the thing really.

She was too clean for him.

But he'd relented so he wouldn't be rude.

Set his jaw, held out his hands, and secretly prayed she wouldn't flinch away. Or laugh. Or sneer.

It'd taken guts, all of them he had.

But he'd looked in those eyes.

And, well, he'd _wanted_ to feel her touch them.

And so she did.

She'd held his big, ugly hands in her small, normal, delicate ones without an ounce of disgust or disdain. Much to his wonder and astonishment.

And told him dark, disturbing things.

And then advised him to get away from the freak show.

And he, overwhelmed with her attention and those sad, pleading eyes and her hands so gently holding his own ugly, deformed ones, had leaned in and tried to kiss her.

And of course, _of course_, she'd shied away.

Because what lovely, clean, intelligent woman in her right mind would want to be kissed by Jimmy the Lobster Boy?

Son of Poseidon, God of the Sea.

The freak.

He'd come back with a honest yet lighthearted quip as best he could.

But it hurt, no getting around that.

So he'd re-adjusted his hat, picked up his balls (metaphorically speaking of course) and gotten away as best as he could.

And gotten himself into a whole other set of circumstances.

* * *

**Oooh, she better not hurt my Jimmy! I mean, ahem, _Jimmy_.**

**Anybody else hear a little Johnny Depp (circa Secret Window) in his voice? I just realized that just now, this very minute.**

**Yep, saw the new episode. But that's a whole 'nother two chapters right there. 'Cause oh good _grief_!**

**Thanks to Jurana Keri for speaking up. Sorry I made you cry, sweetie. But I had to. :(**


	5. A Boy and His Ma

I do not own American Horror Story: Freak Show.

Oh good grief, the humanity of this show is just killing me.

Just People

A Boy and His Ma

* * *

They used to make him cry when he was little.

His freaky lobster hands.

Because they didn't look like Ma's hands.

They didn't look like anybody's hands he'd ever seen.

He'd stare at them for hours on end.

Follow the outlines of the individual fingers incased in the thick, constricting flesh binding them.

Play with his ma's fingers, peer closely at what real hands were _supposed_ to look like, feel like.

And then back at his own.

Feel the bones of each appendage embedded in the flipper of fused flesh.

And wonder what it would be like to be normal.

Once he taken a knife and tried to cut them apart.

In the dim secluded quiet of their little trailer.

It hadn't gone so well.

He'd cried out in pain as the thin blade pierced his flesh, aiming to dig down between the bones of his pinky and ring finger.

He'd pressed harder, blood welling from the gash. Biting his lip, red pulsing at the edges of his vision. Hearing a sudden commotion behind him as he was caught in the act.

"_Here_! Jimmy! Stop that! What're you _doing_, son?!"

Ma, grabbing the knife and flinging it away, pressing a cloth down over the wound.

Him, bursting into sobbing, snotty, miserable tears that he'd failed. Mixed with a little relief that the ordeal was over.

She'd pulled him into her generous lap, sitting them down on the floor.

Rocked him slowly, gently stroking his hair. Her beard tickling the back of his neck as he laid his head down and wept openly against her warm chest.

"I _hate_ 'em, Ma! They're so _ugly_! _I'm_ so ugly! I _hate_ 'em!"

She'd silently let him cry himself out. It took a while. The front of her dress was soaked by the time he exhausted himself. And he'd lain limp and despondent in his mother's strong arms.

When it was all over, she lifted his head up, cupped in her broad, comforting hands, and made him look at her in the eyes.

"Jimmy, now you listen to me," she'd whispered sternly, but not unkindly. "You listen to your ma now."

He'd hushed and listened, his puffy, aching dark eyes searching hers beseechingly.

"You're not _ugly_, Jimmy Darling. You hear me? You're _not_. Those are the hands God gave you. They're strong and they're good."

He'd tried to shake his head but she'd held him fast.

"No, they're ugly, they're not like everybody else's. They call me _Lobster_ _Boy_!" he'd burst out the last, tears of grief and misery threatening to overwhelm him all over again.

She'd allowed him to lay his head back down on her chest again and listen to, feel, her heartbeat into his ears and down into his own body.

"Son of Poseidon," she murmured slowly. "God of the Sea."

He'd lain there, listening to her voice through the comfort of her bosom.

"They will only hold you back if you let them, Jimmy. And that'd be downright foolish of you."

She'd reached down and gently grasped his little deformed hands with her own warm, firm ones.

"You can do so many things with these hands. Look at how _strong_ they are. Much stronger than mine," she observed gently.

He'd run his clunky, thick hands over hers, bottom lip still trembling.

"You know the only thing _my_ hands are better for?"

He shook his head pitifully.

"Tickling you!"

And she ticked his sides as he tried to squirm and hide his giggles.

"_Ma!_"

She'd carried on for a moment, then sobered once more.

"You're a good boy, Jimmy. The best. I can't tell you how proud I am that you're my boy."

He'd felt a rush of love for his ma. His ma who was always there for him.

"Your hands are _special_, Jimmy. And that's okay. There's nothing wrong with that. But if you want people to look past them, give them something else to pay attention to. You've got the face of an angel. And charm and charisma to boot. You can learn to make them see the you that's _inside_ and see what you _want_ them to see. Okay?"

He'd smiled hesitantly at her then and she'd returned it before hardness steeled her gaze once more.

"And the next time you get a damn fool idea like _this_ again," she gestured to his hand wrapped in the blood spotted cloth. "Come find me or somebody to talk to you out of it. Hear?"

He'd nodded obediently.

She'd patted him then and swiped at her own eyes.

"Okay, get along then and be careful with that hand for a bit."

"Yes, Ma."

And he'd gone.

The next week, she'd found a carny to teach him how to juggle.

It turned out, he was quite good.

* * *

**Nothing really much to say here except I had to write this. And I didn't know I did until I started it.**

**Many, many thanks to Jurana Keri for continuing to read and review.**

**Thanks to the silent readers as well. You are much appreciated.**


	6. Shouldn't Have, Should

I do not own American Horror Story: Freak Show.

Oh good grief, the humanity of this show is just killing me.

Just People

Shouldn't Have, Should

* * *

He still couldn't believe she'd done it.

But he guessed he should have.

Crazy Elsa's temper tantrums were legendary.

Jimmy just didn't know how legendary.

He'd been sitting outside Ma's trailer, staring up at the starry night sky. It was so big, so vast, so full of possibility.

Thinking about the twins and what Paul'd said.

Wondering what he could do, what he should do.

Wondering if he should just drop the whole sorry mess and run off.

Knowing he couldn't.

Because they needed him. His friends and those twins, _needed_ him. They needed someone who could handle it.

Paul'd walked up then and said they were summoned to the big top by 'Her Majesty'.

He'd looked apologetic and guilty and angry all at once.

They'd exchanged dark looks.

And Jimmy'd just known there was about to be heavy trouble.

There'd been trouble before of course, but that was just the way it was around Crazy Elsa Mars and her freakshow.

He'd reluctantly woken Ma and they'd gone off to round up the others.

Elsa'd been in a mad fury when they'd all walked into the tent.

She'd already torn down the banner they'd made and haphazardly piled all the presents on the table.

Screaming at them as soon as they'd walked in, a mixture of German and English.

Tears streaming down her cheeks, smearing her make-up. Making her look like a wild, savage thing.

Jimmy was glad they hadn't found Esmerelda or Ma Petite and brought them into this looney bin.

And as she'd demanded their allegiance and loyalty and supplication for the thousandth time . . .

_Yeah, yeah, we owe you, Demon Woman. We get it, we know._

. . . Jimmy'd felt like punching her in the face, just to shut her up.

But he was just trying to catch up with the situation.

And when she'd finally revealed her true reason for throwing a tirade in the middle of the night, Jimmy was shocked.

_Paul was right. She did it. She really did it. Look at that guilt all over her face. She's trying to cover it up with fake righteous anger. What a con, man._

She'd screamed in Ma's face and Jimmy'd been sick with dread and fear.

Elsa _never_ screamed in Ma's face. Others, yes. Ma, never.

And Jimmy just knew something really bad was going to happen.

He shouldn't have been grateful Meep was no longer with them, but at that moment, he really was.

Meep would have been loud and meepy and trembly and Elsa would've pounced on his vulnerability like a lion on a gazelle.

Elsa'd stormed around the space, screaming and raging, even hitting Jimmy briefly before stomping on.

She'd even attacked Toulouse, knocking him nearly down to his back as he hunched on the table.

And Jimmy'd just been unable to take it anymore.

He shouldn't have spoken up. He should have just waited her out, let her run herself down until she was all out of steam like a wind-up toy.

But he did.

He'd stepped forward and spoken up to try and avert her anger before she attacked Paul or timid Eve. Or Salty and Pepper.

And that'd only flared her wrathful flames up more.

And she'd turned on the Pinheads anyway.

Because they were weak. Because they were scared.

And because she _could_.

And Ma standing right there next to them didn't stop it.

_Damn it, Ma! _Do_ something! Stop her!_

But it appeared even the stalwart Ethel Darling was struck dumb by the raging dragon that was Crazy Elsa Mars.

_She's tearing everybody down so we have to kiss her feet. And so we won't question her anymore. So she can swoop around like our angel instead of our devil._

She'd screamed and thrown the presents, spouting hatred for the gifts they'd dutifully offered up for her enjoyment and appeasement.

_We're _poor_, you ungrateful witch! What did you expect? Macy's?_

But he'd been unable to form a suitable quip, even in his head, to combat the insanity of the situation. Because Elsa's rage'd seemed to be plunging on toward an explosive end.

Legless Sue was practically quaking with terror atop the long table. Jimmy'd wanted to tell her to move back out of the way.

And then with the tears of a martyr, Crazy Elsa'd openly wept for herself, for her . . . family. And for her misuse by them.

_Poor, poor, long suffering Elsa. My ass. We are not your family except for when it serves your purpose._

He'd always known she acted out on everyone. Called them her family, her babies, her precious ones.

Rumor had it she even brought Ma Petite into her bed from time to time to cradle like a cuddle-up doll.

Which in Jimmy's humble opinion was just downright creepy.

And now that she hadn't gotten her way, Elsa Mars was throwing a fit, like a spoiled brat.

Only spoiled brats weren't as dangerous as the irrational lunatic raving before him.

And he'd had to speak up, he'd had to try to placate her so she would stop hurting the others. So she would end this manic madess, let them go, and sleep off her poisonous sickness somewhere else.

Jimmy Darling'd had to speak up and lie.

And so he'd done it. He'd reassured her of their trust, of their loyalty.

And Ma'd finally stepped in . . .

_About time, Ma._

. . . and asked what he would remember as the deadliest of questions.

And Jimmy'd seen Crazy Elsa Mars turn and look toward the wheel she'd backed up against.

And he'd known then Ma'd shouldn't have asked.

Because one of them was going to die.

Because the gleeful madness in Elsa's eyes'd sent chills straight into Jimmy's deep marrow.

When she'd spoken, he'd looked around and surveyed the possible victims.

And known he was the only one brave enough, strong enough to take the hit, the pain, the slow death when Elsa Mars missed.

Because Elsa Mars, who never missed, _would_ miss.

Just to teach them all a lesson.

And then she would lie.

And no doctor would be called.

And he would die.

Jimmy Darling, the Lobster Boy, would die.

And Crazy Elsa Mars' insanity would be satisfied.

For a while, at least.

Or, maybe she _wouldn't_ missed.

Or maybe when she did, she _would_ call the doctor.

Either way, Jimmy was the only one who could face all that.

He shouldn't have been surprised when Paul stepped up to take it for him. He'd always suspected Paul'd had a thing with crazy Elsa. The look in his friend's eyes when he'd given her the gift and she'd tittered like a silly schoolgirl would have tipped anyone off.

Jimmy didn't judge. Everybody deserved their pasttimes. Their, _releases_.

He supposed he was just grateful that Crazy Elsa hadn't turned her lusty eye upon him and his lobster hands.

The thought'd made him shudder from mussed head to booted toe.

But Paul, Paul'd looked as though he was paying a penance owed to the devil.

A penance he was going to pay while looking the devil straight in the eye.

Jimmy shouldn't have stayed to watch Crazy Elsa lovingly strap Paul onto that wheel.

None of them should have.

Eve shouldn't have spun the wheel.

But she did.

Paul shouldn't have put his faith in Elsa's fondness of him.

Because fondness can't hold a candle to murderous, scornful rage.

Rage that black will take the deepest love by the throat, rip off its head, and spit down its neck.

And Jimmy'd always known Elsa didn't have much more than shallow, self-serving love to give to anybody.

Much less the deepest.

Jimmy shouldn't have felt a thick, gory shock that Elsa was _actually_ doing her knife throwing act spiel for them while contemplating Paul helplessly trapped on that wheel.

But he had.

Because Crazy Elsa Mars had gotten what she always wanted, what she always strived for. For all the attention to be on her and her marvelous, effervescent self.

And he could tell she was going to milk every single second of it. Suck it all off like a dog worrying over a hunk of meat. Suck it all off.

Right down to the bone.

And she had.

To the horrified screams of the others as she flung the first two knives.

He shouldn't have stayed still, stuck to the spot in cold dread and horror.

He should have tackled her to the ground and knocked her out cold, freed Paul from the wheel, and drowned the crazy woman in the river outside.

But he hadn't.

Because some part of Jimmy'd wanted to believe that she would finish her spiel, throw the final knife, near Paul's armpit maybe, and let them all go.

He'd _wanted_ to believe that.

He shouldn't have.

But he did.

And when she threw that final knife straight into Paul's gut, skewering him like a pig, Jimmy seen the flash of glee, of satisfaction, of _happiness_ painted across her face.

He'd _seen_ it, right before he'd thrown himself at the wheel to do what he could to save Paul's life.

He shouldn't have seen that. It would haunt him forever.

He shouldn't have seen.

But he did.

They'd dragged Paul off the wheel and Evie, in her panic, had wrenched knife out of him, causing his lifeblood to spurt out of his body.

And Jimmy'd known then there was no saving his friend Paul.

But he'd pick him up anyway, him and Evie, and taken him to the caravan so Elsa could call for a doctor.

Because Elsa _would_ call for a doctor.

He wanted to believe that. He wanted to believe that so _bad_.

He shouldn't have.

But he did.

And when unconscious Paul was as settled as they could make him and Jimmy's shirt was soaked in his blood, Elsa had appeared.

And driven them all out.

To be close to him and heal him with her love and compassion, she had said.

And Jimmy'd known that was crap.

She was driving them out so she could gloat over her victory.

He'd changed his shirt, paced all over camp.

Paced and worried and tried not to think.

Not to think about all the things he should have done.

Should have and didn't.

And when he finally returned to the trailer to check on her, he'd found the most insane thing to date.

Ma, frosting a freakin' cake.

_Happy Birthday, Miss Elsa._

He tried to talk sense into her, tell about the doctor, about Paul, about the twins.

And he'd unsettled her, he could tell.

But she would not be moved. Not his Ma.

_At least fill the damn thing with cyanide, Ma. Give it a little kick, huh?_

He should have smashed the cake on the floor and danced on it.

But instead he'd stormed out to face whatever fresh hell Eve had in store for him.

* * *

**Honestly, I snorted out loud at the incredulous 'Really, Ma? You're makin' a **_**cake**_**?!' (Oh, please, somebody tell me there's an outtake somewhere of Katy Bates just losing it on that and Evan Peters grinning impishly like, 'yeah, I did it'.) And so I penned 'frosting a freakin' cake' to try to pay tribute for that superbly delivered line in the middle of the sea of angst.**

**On a darker note, without whining, I have had to live the Crazy Elsa part as a child and teenager multiple times to an abusive, alcoholic father. Except for the wheel and the knives, of course. But we did have loaded guns which were pointed at us.**

**That whole scene made me so sick inside, watching what she did to them. Even before she strapped Paul to that wheel. It brought it all back. And I hate Elsa worse than ever now. **

**Whew, so that was some outpouring, yeah? Haha. So, to whom of you do I send the therapist check? *winks**

**Thanks to a-turtle-shell and Jurana Keri for reading and reviewing. You're both very gracious.**

**Two chapters in a day, I know. But I just couldn't publish this on a Sunday. Though it does remind how grateful I am for my free life every day. Because you see, my Elsa is dead. *pause* No, it wasn't _me_. Six heart attacks'd end anybody but Superman.**


	7. Dreaming

I do not own American Horror Story: Freak Show.

Oh good grief, the humanity of this show is just killing me.

Just People

Dreaming

* * *

He thought about it as he rode.

Leaving.

He was leaving tonight.

He was leaving the freakshow _tonight_.

With _her_.

Away, somewhere.

Pensacola.

Miami.

The keys. Whatever those were.

Just the two of them.

Wherever.

Jimmy Darling felt a huge, almost painful, swelling in his chest.

He grinned broadly, not worried about getting bugs in his teeth.

Or how they were going to get by.

They'd make it somehow.

Kissed him. She'd really kissed him.

Amid all the craziness and the whole sorry mess of everything, she'd kissed him.

Those luscious, sweet lips pressed right to his and he'd wondered if he was really in the opium tent and dreaming all this.

But he'd kissed her back, losing himself in the enjoyment of it.

'Cause even if she was a vision, he wasn't about to say no.

And temporarily forgotten all his previous anxiety about Ma Petite and the oddity of hunting fireflies before dawn. Dawn, when they usually only came out in force at dusk.

Fireflies. They'd been casually talking about fireflies and ponies and then everything had gone to the left. He'd never even seen it coming either.

She'd grabbed his hand (_again_, just like it wasn't an ugly, deformed, freakish thing) and pulled him away from prying ears.

And started saying things that made Jimmy sure he was hallucinating.

She wanted to run away together.

Just the two of them.

Those beautiful, pleading, hazel eyes looking up at him.

Her hands, gently touching his arms, his shoulders, as she begged for them to run away.

Together.

The stunned rush had felt amazing.

_Me? You want to run away . . . with me? Well, that's a sudden change of heart, isn't it?_

Away.

Away from the freakshow.

And crazy Elsa and her throwing knives and deadly tantrums.

And Paul, bleeding like a stuck pig, probably dying. All because he'd stepped up and faced down the raging, awful devil known as Elsa Mars.

And his mother with her sad, mournful eyes. Always stubbornly protecting crazy Elsa. Standing up for her. Even after all the horrible things she'd done.

Run away together.

Just the two of them.

Today, tonight.

Kissed him. She'd stretched up and _kissed_ him. With those red-painted lips. So soft and sweet.

One hand grasping the back of his head and pulling him down close.

And he'd known he'd do anything for her.

Absolutely anything.

Then she'd pulled back a little and he'd looked down at her, only vaguely aware of her delicate fingers playing with the frayed edges of his shirt.

_She's so beautiful and good and sweet and clean. And she wants . . . me? . . . Really? . . . I'll, I'll take it!_

Another big smile.

Another rush of warmth surging through his body. All the way down to booted feet.

And his deformed hands.

Those hands that didn't scare her, disgust her. Didn't drive her away.

Those hands she didn't even mind, didn't even _see_. 'Cause she saw _him_.

Those hands that were all for her now.

Not pentup, unhappy, needy housewives at secret parties.

Not for people to gawk at.

Just her.

When she was ready.

She was so clean, so pure, she might not be ready for a while.

After all, if that was all she was interested in, there were tents and trailers and space all around them and plenty of privacy. Growing up in the carny circuit wasn't exactly a hotbed of decorum and morality anyway.

So she must really like him, just him.

Otherwise she wouldn't have begged him to do something so extreme as running away with her.

But she might not be as _physically_ ready as he was.

And that was okay.

He'd wait until she wanted to, 'til she was ready.

And then he'd give it all he'd got. With everything he'd got.

Show her how he felt, how _much_ he felt.

'Cause him and his hands (and everything else) were all for her now.

He didn't know how they make it along.

He'd think of something.

He was a good worker. Being a carny made him a good worker. Everybody did their share, whatever that might be. Well, everybody except Elsa.

So he would work.

Orange picker. Handyman. Work on a boat.

Something.

Maybe he could even take her to the ocean.

She was from Philadelphia, up north, probably never seen a warm ocean before.

Tried to stop picturing her in a bathing suit, next to him, holding his hand and smiling.

'Cause he'd arrived at his destination.

An impressive grand estate. Nice topiary and flower beds.

Lawn worker. He could be a lawn worker for rich folks.

That'd be good. Gardening gloves to cover up his hands so his employers wouldn't feel uncomfortable. Working outside in the peacefulness and warmth of the sun. Just him and the grass and flowers and shrubs and trees.

He stopped the bike and sat for just a moment, gathering his focus, his determination.

Rubbed one deformed hand atop the other, slowly, thoughtfully.

They were leaving.

Together.

She was waiting, bags packed.

There was just one thing he had to do first.

And then they'd blow this miserable joint forever.

It shouldn't take long.

These rich, normal people couldn't be _that_ difficult to persuade. No matter how creepy and weird they were.

The twins, Bette and Dot.

He just needed to make sure they were okay.

* * *

**Yep, she's got him. Hook, line, and sinker. And if she lets him get hurt, I'm going to _kill_ her. Grrr.**

**Thanks to Jurana Keri for loyally reviewing and t****o a-turtle-shell who figured out we were definitely getting into Jimmy's thoughts on running away with Maggie. Hope you like it! :D**

**Thanks as well to my mystery guest reviewer and your kind words. I assure you I am okay. I have been healing for fifteen years now and my life with my husband and son and friends and students (and fanfiction!) is really great. I'm never scared to go home and we take care of each other with lots of love and laughter :)**


	8. Come As You Are

I do not own American Horror Story: FreakShow.

Did faint dead away when Jimmy started singing. I will not lie.

Just People

Come As You Are

* * *

The opening bass line felt so _good_.

It thrummed his body, stroked his raging nerves, making them hum in perfect harmony with his seething, boiling hate.

And then the other accompaniments joined the first, rolling in like soothing, mellow, crashing gunshots on undulating ocean waves.

He was ready, he was prepared. He was going to take her down. Reveal the monster for what it truly was. Expose it in the light of the unforgiving sun.

It was time.

Jimmy Darling burned with righteous dark fire. He was alit with it, he _glowed_.

Took hold of the microphone.

And threw out his challenge to coolly seething dragon seated before him.

'Come as you are . . .'

_Can you see me now, Elsa? Here I am. And I'm all ready to take you on._

'As you were . . .'

_And this time, I'm not backing down. I'm calling you out._

'As I want you to be . . .'

_You were supposed to be our savior, our rescuer._

'As a friend, as a friend . . .'

_Bad enough what you did to Paul. And that nobody around here will admit it. Or talk about it. _

'As an old enemy . . .'

_But those girls were innocent, helpless. They needed you. They needed us. _

'Take your time . . .'

_And what did you do? _

'Hurry up . . .'

_You schemed, you plotted, you lied. _

'Choice is yours, don't be late . . .'

_And then you sold them to that lunatic and his insane mother._

'Take a rest, as a friend. . .'

_Sold them and abandoned them like livestock, like pets! _

'As an old memory, ah. . .'

_They didn't have anybody in this world who understood them or accepted them. But they had _us_. _

'Memory, ah. . .'

_And you just couldn't _stand_ it, could you? Needed all the glory for yourself. _

'Memory, ah . . .'

_You took their trust and you raped it from them. _

'Memory, ah . . .'

_Anything coulda happened to them. That guy's the one who tried to kill Esmerelda!_

'Come, doused in mud . . .'

_Just once I'd like to see you have to crawl, Elsa. Crawl to us like we crawl to you._

'Soaked in bleach . . .'

_Instead of up there on your throne like a queen looking down to all the freakish, deformed peasants._

'As I want you to be . . .'

_You should suffer too. You deserve it more than us._

'As a trend . . .

_You won't always be safe up there on your pedestal, Elsa._

As a friend . . .'

_You're going to fall. You're going to crash. You're going to burn. I'll make it happen._

'As an old memory, ah . . .'

_For those girls._

'Memory, ah . . .'

_For Paul._

'Memory, ah . . .'

_For Ma. _

'Memory, ah . . .'

_For all of us._

'Well, I swear that I don't have a gun . . .'

'_Cause you're a sickness, a poison. _

'No, I don't have a gun . . .'

_You infect people, twist them, hurt them._

'No, I don't have a gun . . .'

_Well, I've had enough of you and your shit._

'Memory, ah . . .'

_You're a liar and a cheat and a murderer._

'Memory, ah. . ."

_And I'm callin' you out._

'Memory, ah . . .'

_Right . . . now._

'And I swear that I don't have a gun . . .'

_I'm coming for you, Elsa. _

'Memory, ah . . .'

_And I'm going to destroy you._

'Memory, ah . . .'

_I'm going to take you down._

As the last resounding chords faded up into the ether, Jimmy Darling calmly and deliberately tipped over the microphone stand Elsa Mars had doled out precious money for. Crashing it to the stage floor without a passing glance.

And stared down his prey with his dark, pitiless eyes.

And she, she stared right back with hers.

* * *

**Biggest problem writing this chap? Reviewing the scene for 'research' over and over and then forgetting to write and just watching it instead! XD**

**I LOVED this song and the way he sang it and everything about it. And I was a big Nirvana fan in my late teens (thanks to my then boyfriend). And I don't like covers, even if they're sung by people I like. But this one was like, **_**yeah!**_

**Okay, did anyone else get a kick out of the fact that he looked so **_**average**_** there? Those clothes, I swear, he could go to church in them! But no, no, this is what he wears when he sings **_**Nirvana**_**! For goodness' sake, his **_**shirt**_** was even tucked in! Well, mostly. **

**And did you notice in one shot when Jessica Lange is leaning forward with her elbows on her knees that it looks like she's having to physically restrain herself from moving to the rhythm? Ha! I rock out every time I listen to it myself. **

**Which by the way can be found in full glory on Youtube and bought on the iTunes. Yeah, I said 'the' iTunes. Ha.**

**A reviewer to the song itself said they didn't like it because 'it sounded too close to the original'. *Facepalm* Oh yeah, I _hate_ when a song that I like sounds like the song that I like. *snark, snark.**

**Anyway, the new episode was just full of so **_**much**_**, wasn't it? I mean, **_**dang**_**.**

**Alrighty thanks to BeMySpiderman (okay, that's freakin' cool), Jurana Keri, and my mystery guest reviewer for all your encouragement in your reviews. And thanks to the quiet readers as well. Hope you're enjoying it. **

**I'm personally having a blast! Got five plot bunnies out of this one ep. *facepalm* Think there's a AHSFS AA for that? Do they give you Freak Show tickets instead of sobriety chips?**


	9. After Nirvana

I do not own American Horror Story: Freak Show.

And I have no idea what's going to happen next.

Just People

After Nirvana

* * *

Jimmy Darling lay in his bunk with his girl in his arms.

It was quiet now.

It hadn't been earlier.

No, earlier she'd been quite vocal. And he had been too, a little bit.

But now it was quiet and he could think back.

Think back and try to sort this whole sorry mess out.

Bette and Dot.

Two lovely, dark haired young women sharing a body and a life.

He'd worried about them from the moment Elsa said they'd run off.

_They wouldn't do that. They were too timid. And where would they go, where they could be safe away from the stares anyway?_

But he'd believed, or tried to, at least.

Then Paul'd told him about Dandy Mott at the drugstore and his suspicions about Elsa and Jimmy'd slapped his defenseless face.

He have to apologize to him for that, make things right. If the tattooed man recovered from Elsa's knife wound, that was.

And what Paul'd said had stuck in Jimmy's craw, grated on his logic, his common sense.

And when Elsa'd thrown her hideous fit at all of them and thrown that knife into Paul and Jimmy'd seen the glee and vindication on her face, he'd known Paul was right.

So he'd gone, without telling anybody, to the Mott estate.

The crazy richie and his mother had let him into the most luxuriant house he'd ever seen. Right up to the twins' room where they'd sat, primly eating a decadent dish of something white and fluffy.

Wearing a bright, clean, blue dress with a broad, white apron and big bows in their hair.

Like little girl dolls.

The effect had been . . . surreal. And disturbing.

Bette, of course, had been all smiles and delights. But Dot, as per usual, stayed grim and dark.

Jimmy'd been almost relieved to see her frown because it meant her brain was working and she wasn't being sweep up by all the lavish grandeur.

The unhinged mother had prattled on and the man-boy had stood like a little pretentious prince who'd never been wrong or told no in his entire life.

Jimmy'd focused in on the girls, especially Dot.

_I can talk sense to her. She'll listen. She's always liked me. She'll listen._

He'd knelt before them, right down on his knees to beg them, _plead_ with them.

_I don't want anything to happen to you girls. You need us. We're here for you. We, _I_, won't let anybody take you away again._

And then one shoe had dropped as the mother's voice had cut through his focus.

_Paid?_

Then the other, even worse.

_Dandy?_

And he'd known he was standing in the same room, breathing the same air as the masked psychopath who'd tried to saw Esmerelda in half.

The killer clown that got away.

_We need to get out here right now. That crazy man would eat our hearts right out of our chests and his mother wouldn't raise a finger to stop him. We need to get out here before we die._

And Jimmy'd thrown his newfound dark knowledge right at the guy and watched him fly straight to pieces.

_Wow, that was _easy_._

To show the girls just how dangerous Dandy really was. And prove to himself that he was right.

Then the moron'd betrayed Dot's trust about her diary, driving Bette (_who was in _love_ with Dandy Mott?! Jeez, and people think I'm weird_) to choose her sister . . .

_As if she had a choice . . ._

. . . so they could scram before the put-out princeling blew his stack completely and slaughtered them all.

When Jimmy'd held Dot's hand and led the girls from the room, the guy looked ready to split apart at the seams.

_Yeah, but what would come out of him, I wonder?_

Jimmy hadn't begun to really believe they would escape alive until they were riding down Main Street, figuring even Dandy Mott couldn't get away with murdering them in broad daylight in the middle of a town.

But then again, stranger things could happen.

_For instance, I know a crazy German woman who's about to get her ass handed to her on a silver platter by a guy with lobster claws for hands._

As he rode, the twins hanging onto him, Dot filled him in about the particulars of their abrupt departure from the Fraulein Elsa's Cabinet of Curiosities.

And word by word, Jimmy Darling felt his rage growing like a carnivorous, hungry, wrathful thing.

_She's going to pay. I'm going to expose her treachery and make her _pay_._

His fused fingers'd tightened on the wheel until the deformed knuckles were white.

Only she hadn't paid.

Oh, he'd been all geared up. Furious and righteous.

Jumping down from the stage and walking up to her, his eyes and hers drilling holes in each other's brains with hate and defiance.

He'd yelled, he'd whispered, he'd _hissed_ the truth.

He'd revealed the girls and Elsa's hidden deception.

The silence in the big top'd been absolutely deafening.

And he'd known, he'd _known_, that he had her.

But he hadn't.

She'd been rescued.

By _Dot_.

Just as Jimmy was lowering the slicing guillotine of truth, the dark haired, grim girl had spoke up.

And he, neatly dressed as a gentleman exposing a scheming monster, had felt his stunned face first slacken, then tighten in a mask of disbelief and betrayal and confusion.

The others, his friends, his fellow freaks, hadn't known of his plans to bring down Elsa's cardhouse of lies and deception. He hadn't shared the story, or even the fact that the twins had returned.

They had just been playing a song for him to sing.

An excellent song.

A carefully chosen, very _meaningful_ song.

And so when Dot had spoken up and thrown him under the bus, Jimmy'd been totally unprepared and left without a single ally.

Because nobody had known the truth but him and Elsa and the girls.

Who were now changing the story completely.

_What?!_

And he'd floundered, flailed, drowned in the confusion . . .

_But you said . . ._

. . . and confliction . . .

_Should have left you there . . ._

. . . and bafflement . . .

_Who's making you _say_ this stuff?_

And he'd glimpsed Bette's face, pale and pinched and full of confusion as well.

_A lie, it's all a lie, I knew it. But . . .why?_

And Dot, she'd, she'd sung the _praises_ of Elsa Mars and made Jimmy's stomach churn and his head spin.

_I . . . saved you . . . I . . . cared about you . . . why would you _do_ this?_

And then Elsa'd turned back to him, full of dark glee and wicked victory herself.

_She's won. _

_Again._

_She _always_ wins._

And he'd known he had to get out of there before he killed her with his own two lobster hands.

In front of everyone.

Ripped off her sneering face.

And spit in the ruins of that malicious smile.

He'd gone away then to be alone before anyone'd seen his tears of shame, embarrassment, rage, and confusion.

And run into her.

Mystic Miss Esmerelda.

The beautiful, mysterious girl with the hazel eyes who'd kissed him, begged him to run away with her earlier that morning.

_I shoulda just gone then. Saved myself all this trouble._

He'd almost send her away so she wouldn't see him in his present twisted-up state.

But she'd wrapped her arms around him and laid her head against him and he'd felt her warmth and compassion . . .

_Can I trust _you_, Esmerelda? Can I believe _you_? Or are you going to hang me out to dry too?_

. . . and when she looked up, he'd kissed her.

And she'd kissed him back.

His hands'd come up, slowly at first, hesitantly, not wanting to cheapen her, take advantage of her just because he was alone and lost. Because she was different from all the others. She was clean and pure and good.

But she hadn't pulled away. In fact, she'd pressed herself against him and opened her mouth to him.

After that, they gone back to his trailer and he'd fallen himself into her, body and soul.

And she'd felt amazing. Her gasps, her cries, her moans, had been unbelievable.

Her eyes, the way she looked at him.

And his hands, those freakish, deformed lobster hands that she hadn't minded roving all over her normal body. Had moved them places she wanted them to, even. Good places.

And moved hers all over him as well.

And he'd thought he might die from the intensity of his pleasure with her, his release.

And now he lay quiet and still, felt her breathing with him. Listened to his own heartbeat along with the dim sound of the tinny radio.

And held her.

Trying to think.

The peace didn't last very long.

She still wanted to run away. Saw his failure and shame in the big top today as a sign they needed to go. Was begging in his arms to go. With her beautiful, pleading eyes and pouting, tantalizing lips.

And he tried to make her see, understand.

_How can I leave now? They need me. My friends, they're my family. How can I abandon them in this mess now? They're not safe._

She didn't like it. She wanted to toss the past away and make a run for the future.

_But that guy, that Dandy, he can't get away with it. How could you consider letting him get away with almost sawing you in _half_?_

She wasn't happy. She thought he was stalling.

But he wasn't.

_I just need time to make sure the others will be okay, safe. What if he comes after them? Or somebody else?_

She called him out on it, she was disappointed.

But he knew, he _knew_, he was doing right to take care of them and look after them.

Until it was safe to go.

Jimmy Darling clenched his jaw, held his girl, and tried to think of a way to make everything better.

* * *

**Okay, so I double whammied the title of this chapter. Nirvana the band, duh. And a simple definition of nirvana is a ****state of perfect happiness. Which I'm not going to explain 'cause you guys are smart enough to figure out. And if not, you will.**

**Thanks to a-turtle-shell and Juarana Keri for your time reading and reviewing.**

**To my mystery guest, that's a bummer that you were disappointed in the last chapter. I was going for simplistic. Well, you win some, you lose some, I guess. *shrugs* Hopefully, this chapter and coupla next will make up for it. *winks**


	10. No More Liquor For Jimmy

I do not own American Horror Story: FreakShow.

And I really have no friggin' clue what's going to happen next. And I really love that.

Just People

No More Liquor For Jimmy

* * *

_Uuuuuuughhhhhh . . ._

He was dying. There was just no other explanation for it.

Dying.

And he'd never see his beautiful girl again. Never hear her lilting voice again. Never kiss her luscious lips again. Never feel her naked body pressed deliciously to his again.

What a stupid waste.

He tried to sit up but was completely thwarted by the blanket draped over him, entrapping his clumsy, feeble body in its suffocating fibers.

Then his brains exploded out of his pulsating eye sockets.

_Uuuuuuughhhhhh . . ._

Through the second heartbeat throbbing in his miserable head, distantly heard quiet movement.

Strong, familiar hands pulled him, against his will, up into a sitting position.

_Aaaarrrrrrrggggghhhhhh, mufffaaackeerrrr . . ._

He peered through swollen slits of thick, gummy flesh at the figure before him.

And wished he had already died.

Heavyset female body. Neatly brushed thin gray hair. Wiry brown beard.

Ma.

He slouched back against the wall of his bunk, vaguely wondering how a room so dark could still be so bright and piercing.

Like spearing, slicing shards of light.

She never said a word, his Ma, just handed him a partially filled cup.

He sniffed it.

Nothing.

Sipped it.

Water. Tepid.

Grimaced as it made his teeth ache like he was gnawing on iron filings.

Swallowed thickly, feeling it slide down his parched throat.

And lunged forward, retching sickly through sore, aching, shredded muscles.

Right into the bucket Ma'd strategically placed for just this exact reaction.

When he finally leaned back to resume his previous, wretched position with renewed agony coursing through his body, she pressed a damp, cool cloth to his mouth, wiping the remaining sour moisture away.

Her slate blue eyes nailed his putrid carcass right to the trailer wall.

And her thinly held mouth never spoke a word.

Not a single word.

He tried to think of something to say.

Anything at all.

An excuse. A reason. A quip.

_Oh it ain't so bad. I'm fine. I'm a _man_ now. And men, men _drink_, Ma!_

No.

_Well, I was trying to take care of it, like I said I would. Just got a little . . . sidetracked is all._

No.

_I . . . I . . . just wanted a _father_, Ma. Even if he is a rotten, violent, lying bastard._

Closer to the truth. But still no.

They stayed there for a while. Him, trying not to die. And her, patiently waiting his sickness out.

Never saying a word. Never leaving.

Somehow that was the worst part. It would be better if she'd just leave him alone to die.

It was what he deserved anyway.

Finally, he stopped sweating and puking and trembling so much.

Drank more water and even kept it down.

She doled out crackers slowly, one after the other.

He held them in his mouth carefully then tentatively chewed. No salt. Just little squares of dry cardboard, really.

Finally finishing no less than a dozen crackers and an entire cup of tepid water _and_ keeping it _all_ down, Ma seemed somewhat solemnly satisfied with her inebriated son's progress.

And Jimmy, Jimmy Darling with his pounding headache and wrung out, rattling insides, was completely exhausted.

His head drooped. His eyes slipped closed.

Until he felt himself slowly tilting sideways.

Rousing slightly, he saw Ma, still there, still silent, easing him back down onto the mattress. Covered him over again with the blanket.

His cement laden eyes rolled up and closed again.

Right before he fell gratefully unconscious again, he felt her thick, strong, gentle fingers brushing through his sweat filthy, grimy hair. Soothing it down, comforting his hot clammy flesh.

_I'm sorry, Ma. I just, I just wanted . . . just for once . . . huzzzzzzzzzz . . ._

* * *

The second time he woke up he _was_ alone.

His head still felt like a swollen, throbbing sack of pus.

But he was no longer dying.

Probably. Most likely. Maybe.

But he still wasn't going to chance moving much yet.

_Oh, man what did I _do_?_

He mentally furrowed his brow, as physically furrowing it might have killed him.

Then finally, through the fog of pounding sickness, it came back to him.

Going to talk to Dell, that's what he'd been _going_ to do.

Man to man. Kick him to the curb. Sayonara, jerk.

It hadn't gone _exactly_ according to plan.

The liquid fire Dell'd insisted upon had tasted like poison, gasoline. For about the first six shots.

He'd been trying to talk to Dell. Stay good 'n mad. Lay it on the line that the guy had to scram.

And that's where he'd gone wrong.

Talking.

About himself.

About not wanting to drink. 'Cause of Ma. And his fear of becoming what she had once been.

And good ole' Dell. Giving that guy to guy camaraderie, with his reasonable sounding excuses, brushing the truth under the rug. Pressuring him into drinking with all that 'men drink' and 'mama's boy' . . .

_Hey, I _love_ my mama . . ._

. . . crap like they were kids on a schoolyard . . .

_Not that _I_ ever got that experience, nope not the Lobster Boy . . ._

. . . or something . . .

But it sure had worked, hadn't it?

Yep, sure had.

And then of course, there was that other thing. That feeling that he was there, finally there, sitting next to . . .

Jimmy grimaced even more from that thought than the pounding in his head, cradling the pulsating blob of his head in his deformed hands.

Things'd started going to fuzzy around the edges then. He'd started warming up and relaxing.

He'd even told the story about his hands and the snow and Ma Petite and the rabbit and the gloves.

Jimmy sighed. You didn't _tell_ heartwarming life stories to the guy you hated and were trying to get rid of. You just _didn't_.

_Unless you're a dumbass like me, I guess. _

And Dell'd made him take off his gloves and said . . .

_He made me _care_. He made me feel like _he_ cared._

And Jimmy'd smart mouthed off something funny and they laughed loud and happy.

The rush of feeling like family and drunken warmth and belly jostling laughter had sent his overloaded system over the edge.

His face'd gone doughy and numb and his guts'd burned and churned acid lava and he'd known he had to run for it.

He'd heaved up something vile in the alley and the realization that . . .

_Oh god, I've gone and done it. I'm drunk and Ma's gonna be furious and I was only trying to help and be a man and it's so hard to _do_ that when you'd never had one to look up to and it's all because of this awful, rotten loser over here . . . _

. . . contributed greatly to the utter disintegration of his self-control.

Jimmy Darling lay in his bed and closed his eyes, groaning throughout his shambled wreck of a body.

_Oh, man, I _cried_. Ugh, like a _baby_._

Because suddenly it had become the most important thing in the entire _world_ to hear the man say it, just once. Nothing trumped that card, not Amazon Eve, not crazy Elsa, not even _Ma_.

Just that once, he wanted, he _needed_ to _hear_ it.

And so he'd blabbed his slobbery, fool mouth about his hands and the Famous Toledo Lobster Clan.

He'd whined and cried and begged and spilled his pitiful, stupid guts, everything that had been pent up his whole _life_, until the shocked, staring man'd accepted him.

Finally_ accepted_ him.

As his _son_.

And then . . . and then . . .

_Oh jeez, no . . ._

He'd hugged him. Jimmy'd _hugged_ him.

And it had felt so _good_.

Just to be _hugged_.

By his _dad_.

Who'd hugged him right back.

Jimmy reached up to the sideboard and clumsily fished a cracker from the bowl Ma'd left. He put it in his mouth, decided it just took too much effort and pain to chew, and let it sit there on his bile soaked tongue.

After he hugged his father to the unimportant clunking sound of something falling to the concrete, things had gotten kinda hazy.

He'd meant for Dell to go.

_Finally got a Dad, now I gotta send him away . . ._

And Dell, _Dad_, had said something figuring things out and about home.

Going home.

Getting Jimmy home.

His hazy, tangled thoughts trailed off.

As Jimmy Darling, with his dry mouth full of damp, tasteless cracker, fell asleep.

* * *

When he woke the third time, he managed to sit up all by himself and stay that way. Shamble to the tiny table.

And sit there like an empty husk, lobster hands limply in his lap.

It was still quiet.

But it sure hadn't been earlier.

Earlier there had been singing. He remembered _that_. Really loud, boisterous singing.

Him and Dell.

Dad.

Hanging onto one another like the best of friends. Close as brothers. Or, more truthfully, father and son.

And singing.

About a strongman and debutantes.

Or something.

Elsa sure hadn't liked it. Her in her silky nightgown and robe.

_Arrgh, put those _away_, you crazy German broad! They're _old_! Nobody wants to see 'em! Ha!_

And then there'd been Desiree, sounding for all the world like his mother.

Or a really pretty, three boobied aunt that he'd once felt up.

_Until she bled on me anyway. That's a mood killer for sure._

Big Daddy Dell Toledo bellowing that Jimmy was his son. And he, Jimmy, feeling on top of the world and sooo proud, had shouted it too.

Condescending Elsa, snarking away at Dell's proud declarations.

Knowledge. Dell imparting some really important knowledge on him. Man knowledge.

Something about his balls. Keepin' 'em. Or holdin' em. Or something.

And Jimmy'd yelled, _yelled_ . . .

_Oh crap_ . . .

. . . right at Elsa, right in front of anybody who wanted to see, to hear, about . . .

_Something. I definitely was yelling about something important. Oh yeah . . ._

Bulls. And balls. Balls and bulls.

Pitching forward and faceplanting the ground.

Laying there like a limp, rotten noodle 'cause he'd up and lost all his bones when they'd melted right out of his skin.

And through the air woofed out of him, yelling for, _demanding_, another song from Dell.

And at the silent, glowering Elsa to be quiet.

Oh, he'd felt so good. So young and strong and virile.

_Invincible_, yeah.

After that . . . after that . . .

Well, he couldn't remembered anymore after that.

Jimmy Darling sat alone in the quiet dimness of his dingy trailer and chugged more of the tepid water Ma'd left for him.

He was so _thirsty_. Never before in his entire life, had he ever been so thirsty. He was like an arid, empty desert, he was so _thirsty_.

But he still couldn't remember what he'd said last.

_There's no telling. Maybe it wasn't too embarrassing. _

He groaned deep in his weary chest, slumping forward until his forehead came to a rest on the scarred tabletop, thumping softly down.

_Probably was though._

He groaned again, pressing his forehead into the unrelenting surface until the outside ached worse than the in.

Belligerent, that's what he'd been.

And Jimmy Darling was not belligerent.

Or a drunk.

Jimmy Darling was a good guy.

Or had been.

Then the trailer door opened.

And in walked Ma.

* * *

**I both laughed and cried and facepalmed myself silly at the whole drinking/drunk/screaming at Elsa bit of the ep. **

**And resolved once again to never drink. Never have, never will. The end.**

**So anyway, here's my original chapter of what I think happened next.**

**Thanks to a-turtle-shell and Jurana Keri for your continued reading, reviewing, and support.**

**Thanks to goodnight-to-the-morning for adding your support to this tale as well. **


	11. That Still Small Voice

I do not own American Horror Story: Freak Show.

But talk about being emotionally involved with the characters. Oh yeah, I'm there.

Just People

That Still, Small Voice

* * *

_You failed, Jimmy boy._

That's what he heard in his head when the door to his trailer opened and he saw his ma's solemn expression as she stepped inside.

He hadn't gotten rid of Dell. The exact opposite, in fact. He had bonded with him, brought him back to the camp.

Drunkenly ridiculed Elsa with him.

Though it had been a lot of fun at the time, it didn't change the fact that Jimmy Darling had failed.

He hadn't protected the women.

Those good women.

Amazon Eve, with her strong, towering frame and her tender, kind heart.

Legless Suzi, with a unique strength and dignity all her own.

And Ma. His ma.

They had needed him to get rid of Dell.

Him, to do the job. To make the man disappear.

Or they would. Permanently.

Ma'd practically had a breakdown over it.

Jimmy remembered it with the sharpest clarity of the truly regretful.

Her, crying, sobbing, pleading.

Losing all her hope, all her strength, all her resilience.

It'd scared him.

Ma _never_ broke down like that.

Not anymore.

Not after she'd put down the bottle all those years ago.

Until she'd completely fallen apart.

And wasn't his Ma at all. But some other broken, destroyed shell of a woman wearing his mother's beard.

It'd made him sick. Made him worry. Made him fearful.

For her.

He'd never seen her quite so bad.

Her misery, her pain, her torment was open, naked, bald, right out in front of him.

When he was younger and she'd been on the sauce, she'd tried to hide it from him.

When she'd go to pieces and he'd hide, scared and alone until she'd fall asleep in her bunk. Or her friends'd come and help her and get Jimmy away before she totally blew her stack.

But she'd never, not once, not in the fourteen years she'd been dry, _ever_ directed it so clearly, so sincerely, so _absolutely_, at him.

All her grief and anguish and hopelessness.

On display. Covered in the maggots and worms of misery and despair.

Her breakdown'd scared him more than anything else in his entire life.

Even more than those creepy clowns and Edward Mordrake's troupe of the damned.

Well, almost.

'Cause Ma, _his_ Ma, was strong, a rock that others had leaned against. That others took comfort, took faith in.

And that rock had crumbled.

Right before his very eyes, she'd fallen apart.

And Jimmy Darling, the Lobster Boy, the _man_, had felt his heart burn in his chest.

In love. In worry. In fear.

For her.

And he'd do anything, _anything_, to make it better for his Ma.

To make it okay. To make it right.

Except he hadn't.

He'd failed.

Failed Eve. Failed Suzi.

Failed Ma.

And now she stood there, dimming light wrapping around her stout form, framing her in silhouette.

He stared at her, wanting to open his mouth and apologize, beg her forgiveness. Ask her to tell him she still loved him, that he was still her son.

Tell her he would do better. That he would try again to be the man he should be.

Speak, say anything.

But she beat him to it, her familiar voice full of darkness ad foreboding.

"We need you, Jimmy. Now."

* * *

_She's gone. You'll never find her alive. You failed._

Anxiously searching through the darkness, calling over and over again for her.

Passing the light out before him over and over again. Looking for any sign, any sign at all, that would lead him to her.

Listening, so frantically listening over the sound of the dog's barking. Over the sound of his and others' strained voices.

Over the sound of his own pounding heartbeat.

Listening, listening for her sweet voice. For a relieved call from somebody, anybody.

Knowing he never would.

Desperately hoping for a miracle.

Precious, tiny, beautiful, Ma Petite.

Little Ma Petite, lost in the big, dark woods.

Alone.

* * *

Gone forever.

Nothing remaining but her torn, blood spotted dress.

Like the Bible story of that guy with the colorful jacket.

The only difference was _he_ had lived. And she, she hadn't.

Why would she wander alone away from camp?

_She wouldn't. She never has before. Not once._

But she had . . .

_Are you sure?_

. . . and now she was gone too.

_Something bad got to her. Something killed her. Killed that tiny, sweet light._

And Jimmy carried it back to camp, the apple box containing her soiled dress . . .

_How _cleanly_ that animal managed to remove it before eating her, bones and all. Very mannerly of the beast, wasn't it?_

. . . gritted his teeth, and tried in vain to choke down his miserable, bitter tears.

_You failed her, that little broad you loved so much. You failed her. _

And when they buried her, when they spoke their words and buried the empty apple box, all Jimmy Darling could see behind his dark eyes was her.

Wrapped up in that little brown rabbit fur coat he'd made for her.

And smiling.

* * *

Ethel Darling, the Bearded Lady, was dead.

His ma.

Was dead.

By her very own hand.

In the most bizarre way possible.

_But a bit overdramatic for her, don't you think?_

Then again, she was a carny, a showman.

_No, only in front of the rubes. Not in her life. Not just as her._

Busting out the back car window, climbing into the driver's seat . . .

_Really? Taking the time to thread that heavy, thick chain around the tree and through the trunk, past the backseat, to the front?_

Wrapping it around her neck, slamming her foot down on the pedal.

_But that rock, remember there was big rock in the floorboard . . ._

Revving up the engine, and popping the clutch . . .

_An overly time-consuming and an iffy suicide plan at best . . ._

A sudden jerk into forever blackness.

_But not really her style, I think. She seemed more of a good, old fashioned gun-to-the-head type girl . . ._

And leaving Jimmy alone in the world to move forward, move on, lost, without her.

Without his ma.

Without a word to comfort or guide.

Left alone with these people. These people who weren't her.

Elsa screaming and bellowing, wailing enough for them all.

And Jimmy, stumbling toward her like a dead, numb thing.

Crouching down and holding her as she grieved.

_Her tears and cries stink of regret and guilt and shame, Jimmy boy . . ._

But so had his as well, so he had held her 'til she was empty.

* * *

He tried to give his Ma a proper send-off that evening, tried to tell the best things about her.

Read her favorite poem.

He tried to say goodbye to her the best way he could.

He tried not to wail, not to cry.

He tried to be a man.

But he failed in that too.

He couldn't help it.

His ma was gone.

And she was never coming back.

Then he'd lain dead and empty inside, bottle in hand all through the night 'til he'd passed out in a fog of misery.

And in his nightmares, he'd seen her. His ma, a distance off.

Crying and reaching out for him, sorrow etched all over her handsome face.

And he'd run, on and on across weirdish wild space to reach her.

Hold her, comfort her.

His Ma.

Only with every step he took toward her, she receded just that much.

But he'd kept running, kept going, kept moving toward her.

All night long.

* * *

He was drunk now. Stone drunk.

And he intended to stay that way as long as possible.

_And you think this would make her _proud_ of you? To see her son a mindless, shambling drunk?_

It didn't matter.

His ma wasn't here anymore to see him.

She was dead.

Killed herself.

_Are you _sure_ about that? _

Abandoned him alone in this putrid, stinking mess of a life.

Really_ sure?_

And if he drank enough, maybe, just maybe he would die too. Or, at the very least, that voice in his head would finally shut up.

_Not likely, Jimmy boy. 'Cause I'm the only brains you got left._

He picked up another bottle.

And finally spoke back to that still, small voice.

_Well, let's see if I can fix that, huh?_

* * *

**Ethel, my surrogate bearded mama, would never have died if she'd only stopped _talking_ and just _shot_ the woman (not in the leg)! *facepalm* No. More. Monologuing! Did we learn _nothing_ from 'The Incredibles', people?!**

**But I did love her and it sucks that she's gone.**

**And Maggie, how much does that b**** know?!**

**Okay, okay, I'm fine, I'm good, I'm fine.**

**Man, I've been writing the Wisconsin story for so long, I nearly forgot how dark Freak Show can go! Whew! Anybody else need a hug?**

**So anyway, thanks to Juarana Keri (yep, here we go, I guess), the1upguy (shaving the tongue XD), brigid1318 (welcome to obsessive fold, baby!), shyangel101 (yep, Evan Peters cries the tears of angels, the snot unfortunately as well), and iwritexx (dang, woman, I should pay you salary!) for all your great reviews!**

**Thanks as well to BDSalvatore (Drizzit fan?) and YoullfindMeInWonderland (still searching, sweetie) for adding your support to this tale. **

**What's going to happen next? Deuces if I know. ;)**


	12. I Am Nobody

I do not own American Horror Story: Freak Show.

But talk about being emotionally involved with the characters. Oh yeah, I'm there.

Just People.

I Am Nobody

* * *

He'd been peaceful and quiet.

Just minding his own business, just stackin' the empty bottles outside the mess tent.

_I'm gonna make me a pyramid. Just like the Eytp . . . Etyp . . . Egyptiamams . . ._

And working real hard trying not to think.

And then Maggie Esmeralda, little Miss Mystic Girl with her bright red lips and her sensibleness, came over and ruined everything in the dumbest way possible.

Insisting that he sober up . . .

_Nooope . . ._

And be in charge, be a leader.

_You know, Mama wanted me to be a leader. Elsa wanted me to be a leader with her leading me, probably by the ding-dong. Now you._

Bringing up his responsibilities, their running away together plans.

_I can't help you, baby. I'm no good for you. I'm nobody._

Calling him a leader, a hero.

_Me? No. I'm no leader, no hero. If I was, Meep'd still be alive. And Ma Petite. Ma. They were the real heroes. Me? I'm nothing._

And that was what she wanted, in the end. She wanted him to forget how he felt, ignore how he felt. Be something he wasn't.

Forget about Ma and move on.

Like she wasn't even worth remembering.

_It's only been a few days, for crying out loud. Can't I just have a few _days_?! _

He'd yelled, right in her pretty face, that face he'd love to gaze at, to kiss, to caress. He'd bellowed and raged.

Tried to get her to understand what it was like for him.

Then tried to get away before he said anything else.

Like how worthless he was.

How much he didn't deserve her. Or anybody else.

How pointless everything was.

How much he just wanted to die, to drown himself in that river over there.

How much he just needed another brain numbing drink.

But she just wouldn't let it go.

Acting all hurt.

_You're hurt? _You're_ hurt?! Why are all you people sooo much more hurt than me?! She was _my_ mother, not any of yours!_

Talking more . . .

_Oh my god, won't you shut _up_? I'm trying not to think. It hurts too much to think. Stop trying to make me think! Don't you see it hurts to think?!_

And then the pretty, little pleading thing had tried to take away his liquor bottle.

_Let it go! Let go before I knock it off!_

He yelled at her again, pushed her.

He'd been dangerous, holding on to her wrist and practically growling at her.

And it had finally worked. He'd driven her away. She'd gone off to act hurt somewhere else.

_Good. Now I'm finally alone again._

And Jimmy'd felt . . .

_It's really for the best._

. . . relief . . .

_I didn't mean to make her cry. She deserves so much better._

. . . guilt . . .

_But not from me. I can't give her all the things she wants and deserves and needs. _

. . . shame . . .

_I'm nobody. I'm just a worthless, drunken freak with lobster hands and no mother._

And an overwhelming sense of despondency.

_Ah crap, I'm alone again._

He'd looked around, lost and adrift.

People moving around, moving about, moving on. Like a sea of humanity that he was drowning in because he in his misery, despair, and shame, couldn't keep up, couldn't make sense of it or anything at all anymore.

And eventually they'd leave.

Just like they'd all left.

Meep. Bette and Dot. Ma Petite. Ma.

They moved on from life, from here, from wherever. They moved. They didn't stay.

And then he saw her.

Sitting there.

Still.

Very still.

Except . . .

_Man, she's _still_ eating? Is she _always_ eating?_

And Jimmy blearily thought of when he'd first met her, only a day or two . . .

_Or three? I don't know. I'm drunk, time is drunk . . ._

. . . ago in the big top as he was trying to drown his sorrows in booze and in yelling in Elsa's stupid face.

He'd turned hazily to look where Elsa'd been gesturing and seen her walking toward him.

_Holy crap, that's a big woman. _

And he'd wondered just how drunk he was to be seeing a lady that large.

_And that's too much white cloth for _anybody_. Much less somebody _that_ big_.

Then the girl, she'd smiled at him.

_Oh, that's nice . . ._

And approached closer as Elsa'd kept blithering on.

_But damn, that's a fat lady._

And then something Elsa said had cut through his shocked, drunken stupor.

_Ima _Wiggles_? Oh boy, that's bad, Elsa, even for you._

The girl, Barbara was her name, had spoken softly and reached out her hand . . .

_Oh crap, please don't eat me._

. . . to shake his.

_Oh, okay. _

She hadn't even seem to notice his lobster claw hand.

'_Course there is _food_ in front of her. She's probably a little distracted._

Jimmy'd stared at the table in revulsion and confusion.

_Uh, Elsa, is she going to eat _all_ this? Now?_

And he'd started to feel sick to his stomach.

It might have been the lack of food mixed with an overabundance of liquor in his system.

_Or it could be the fact that she's about to eat an entire troupe's worth of food in one sitting. Damn._

The Pinheads and some roustabouts'd been serving her while Elsa wrapped an enormous . . .

_What is that, a freakin' tablecloth?_

. . . around her neck so she would not soil her bright, white dress.

And Jimmy Darling had been struggling to think of something, anything to say . . .

_No, honey, please. Put down that fried chicken leg and go for a stroll instead._

. . . that would not be insulting to her.

Thankfully, Elsa had saved him from all that by casting aside the good memory of Ethel Darling as casually as Jimmy might toss aside an empty bottle of booze . . .

_Or Barbara here might toss aside this table when she's emptied it off._

. . . raising Jimmy's ire all over again . . .

_It's about you again. It's all about you! Your pain, your struggle, your sick desire to control me, for me to be constantly grateful to you! Ugh, I hate you!_

. . . 'til he'd stormed off to find somewhere else to drink.

Maybe the Ferris Wheel. It'd seemed like a good spot to pass out.

But one thing Elsa'd said had stuck with him.

And he thought of it now.

Bosoms. And comfort.

At the time, he'd been so angry with her. Her and Elsa. So insulted and disgusted.

But now he was lonelier.

_You have dark hair. Ma used to have dark hair. _

Sadder.

_She is, _was_, bigger too. Well, not mammoth like you, but heavier than the skinnies. _

Drunker.

_And warm . . . she gave the best hugs when I needed them 'cause a big hug like that makes you feel safe, you know . . ._

And he veered over nearer to the pink bedecked woman . . .

_Hey, Barbara. You look like a big, pink cake. Ma makes cakes sometimes. Used to._

. . . who looked up at him nervously.

_Oh no, I'm not dangerous. I'm just drunk._

He talked, slurring some semblance of words out of his sorry face, never saying . . .

_I am nobody. Who are you?_

. . . what he really wanted to say.

But instead shuffling closer, dropping to his knees . . .

_Are you nobody too?_

And laying his miserable, sick, drunk head down . . .

_Then there's a pair of us._

. . . and sobbing all over again, like a little lost pitiful child . . .

_Don't tell. _

. . . on those ample, comforting bosoms.

_They'd banish us, you know._

Or her ample, comforting belly.

It was kind of hard to tell.

He didn't really care.

* * *

**There ya go, my brigid1318, was that okay? **

**I'm not trying to make fun of heavy people, honest. But Jimmy's look of pure bafflement merged with what I swear was horrified shock and slight panic was too good to pass up. And he was drunk and in emotional pain, so his social filters were on the fritz.**

**And honestly? I'm no twig myself. But what can I say? Cheeseburgers are goooood. **

**But really, drunk, crying, hugging Jimmy is a hard Jimmy to deal with. You know, kind of like a crying, talking Stallone. Bonus points for anyone who knows that reference.**

**And yes, that's part of the Emily Dickenson poem 'I Am Nobody' that**** Jimmy read before.**

**Okay, brigid1318, seriously, if Jimmy goes all Titus with the fat lady, I'm going to need therapy.**

**Moving along, thanks to brigid1318, Jurana Keri, iWritexx, and shyangel101 for reviewing. Thanks to Psychopathic Kitty for the positive waves as well. **


	13. Jimmy and His Women Part 1

I do not own American Horror Story: Freak Show.

It is starting to turn that corner that I dread. The shrivel-up-and-die corner, I call it.

Just People

Jimmy and His Women Part 1

* * *

Jimmy Darling had a lot of women in his life. And he was having trouble sorting them all out.

There was Barbara, his big, juicy fat lady. Well, girl, really.

Watching her eat did something to funny to him. Every time she took a bite, her face flushed and her eyes lit up and she seemed, well, turned on.

Which turned Jimmy on once he'd stopped sobbing all over her like a big, drunk baby.

He'd blearily wondered what it would be like to pleasure a woman simply by feeding her.

At first had been a little weird, requesting to feed her. Vaguely worried that she might balk at his deformed lobster hands.

But her eyes had lit up even more at the prospect.

And it had been _fun_.

She giggled and squealed and cooed.

Like she was actually _happy_ to be there with him.

Like she was _enjoying_ herself.

With _him_.

She was different from that stuffy, old, pouty, schoolmarm Maggie, who wanted him to be responsible and serious and emotionless just like her.

Barbara just wanted him.

And the food.

She practically glowed at him whenever he was around.

Especially when he fed her.

No coyness, no slightly cool demeanor. No reserved, collected standoffishness.

Nope, not his fat girl, Barb.

There was nothing hidden or mysterious or secretive or dark about her at all.

She was open. Wide open.

And soft.

He loved to watch her suck the little bits off the end of the spoon. Feel the tug on his hand.

Listen to her giggle. Look into her eyes all alight with excitement and pleasure.

Nobody else understood. They just looked at him like he was crazy.

He didn't care. He ignored their stares of disbelief and disgust. They didn't matter.

She did.

And the freedom to be just as silly and crazy as he wanted to be with her.

And his booze of course.

That mattered.

A lot.

The things he said to her, the things he did, ole' Miss Mystic Schoolmarm woulda scoffed at. Turned up her pert little nose.

But Ima, his big, juicy fat lady, she _loved_ it.

And that made him happy.

At least for the moment.

* * *

That Dandy Mott creep wasn't a woman of course.

But he'd sure caused enough trouble with the other women in Jimmy's life to be slotted into the category of 'people who make lil' Jimmy reach for his booze bottle'.

Which was pretty much everybody at this point.

But Dandy was the only people, uh, person, that he could _hit_.

Or try.

But then again, lying on the ground, sucking on grass and dirt did have its own sets of pros.

For one thing, it soaked up some of the booze that seemed to be practically leaking out of his skin.

And it gave Jimmy the stillness to properly hear the cultured Mr. Mott's hissing, lecherous oration.

Something about gods and suffering . . .

_Suffering, yeah, suffering, I'm there, man._

. . . destroying the things that Jimmy loved most . . .

_My booze, you're gonna take my booze?_

And then the guy'd walked away, just like all his friends did, leaving Jimmy to wallow alone in the dust.

While the rich kid with the killer clown hobby drove away in a car so hoity toity and expensive that Jimmy wouldn't even be low enough to wash the hubcaps of.

* * *

So he dragged his sorry self up and back to his big, fat Ima.

And his booze.

There were just a few problems with booze as it turned out. Nothing with which he couldn't cope of course.

Seeing everything in wobbly double.

Hoping to stay rollin' on his feet once he got headed in a certain direction.

Knowing he'd eventually puke up everything in his guts and have to taste that awhile 'til he found more booze to drown himself in.

Other than that, no big deal.

Well, except sometimes his ding-dong didn't work all the way.

And it took a lot of effort, _a lot_ of effort to try and keep going through all that with Ima.

'Course she didn't seem to mind much though.

Little Miss Mystic, on the other hand, did.

At least Jimmy thought so.

He was a little too occupied with blindly begging like a lost, drunken, rutting mutt.

Grabbing knockers, mouthing off.

_Lemon-lime lollipops, what a lying laugh. It didn't taste like that at all. It tasted like, well, what it is. Only one thing in the world tasted like that. That. _

And getting roundhouse slapped by an enraged Little Miss Mystic for his aserbic wit and charm.

_Oh boy, that _really_ pissed her off, didn't it? Haha. Ow._

To really pay much attention.

And when Perfect Little Miss Mystic snarled at Ima about the pillows, and donuts, and socks, he'd known she was right.

And that'd finally made him turn and throw up.

Well, that and the river of liquor sloshing in his gut.

* * *

The Tupperware women.

All wanting their jollies and not caring about him.

Fumbly fingers and sour rot breath and everything tilting sideways on him.

_Buuuuut, at least I get paid._

The lady of the house didn't really seem to enjoy it like she had before.

_What the hell's wrong with _you_? These are lobster fingers of magic, babyyy . . ._

She practically jumped right up, threw her money at him, and tottered right out the door.

_Well, happy to meet your acqui . . . happy to meet your acquaint . . . happy to meet your hoohaa . . ._

And Jimmy'd staggered after her, basically 'cause he was already pointed in that general direction.

And he was _starving_.

Right into the living room, parlor, sitting room, whatever. And finding the rest of the ladies.

And . . .

_What in the _hell_ are these little things? Little wienies on a stick? No _wonder_ you call me, you can't do nothing with these! I could eat the whole plate and store it in my foot! Ha!_

And as if _that_ wasn't enough of a mind screw, Ma, dead Ma, showed up in the middle of everything, wearing pearls (as if she'd ever owned a real set in her whole life). Conversing with those little primps about how to store your leftovers.

_What about me? I'm a leftover. But if nobody wants to store me, will I just be tossed out too?_

So confused, so _relieved_ to see her there.

_Oh, Ma, you're here, oh I missed you, oh I've been so lost and confused, Ma, I've needed you!_

Collapsing so gratefully with his head in her lap, just like he did when he was a little boy and known he'd done wrong and needed to know she forgave him. Needing to feel her warmth and acceptance and love.

Only she didn't love him.

She didn't forgive him.

She was angry with him.

Disappointed in him.

And then, she wasn't even there at all.

Just a sick little mind drunk thing.

And he was still all alone.

With all those rich, stuck up housewives looking down their powdered noses at him.

Him and his shame.

Until he stumbled out the front door.

_Heyyy, the front door . . . I finally left out the front door. As a reward, you know, I think I'll go puke in those pretty bushes over there now. What are these, azaleas? _

* * *

**Hello again all! **

**I'm back from my two week Freak Show writing hiatus. I'd like to personally thank brigid1318 for dragging me off my freaked-out butt (figuratively) and making me face up to what Jimmy has become. And for helping me with this chapter and its part two.**

**Among other things, I figured there had to be a reason Dandy rang the bell so soon after Jimmy wandered out the front door and nobody mentioned it. My guess.**

**Thanks to brigid1318, Jurana Keri, shyangel101, Lydia (Wow, just wow, sweetie! Thank you sooo much! Wow!), Psychopathic Kitty, iWritexx, and my mystery guest (hope I don't let you down here) for reviewing. **

**Thanks to Strummer Pink and the Cry-Wank Kid for adding your support as well. **


	14. Jimmy and His Women Part 2

I do not own American Horror Story: Freak Show.

It is starting to turn that corner that I dread. The shrivel-up-and-die corner, I call it.

Just People

Jimmy and His Women Part 2

* * *

Evie, sweet Evie.

Sweet, stupid, moronic, dumb, freakishly tall, broad Evie.

Jimmy bellowed at her about Ma's banner until she walked away from him in a huff.

_Heyyy, why you wandering off, you tall, ugly, tree _freak_ of a woman?_

He'd told her to go but she was supposed to stay, wasn't she?

Friends stayed, family stayed. No matter what you did.

No, no, that was wrong.

They left. Everybody left.

Left him all alone.

But he was really too mad at her to consider the leaving and staying argument anyhow.

How dare she even _think_ about taking Ma's banner down?! Didn't anybody _care_ about Ethel Darling anymore? Didn't anyone have any _respect_ anymore?

If they stopped remembering her, stopped thinking of her, it would be like she'd never existed.

And then he'd have never existed in a world with a ma who cared for him, believed in him, loved him.

Ma, whose voice continued to echo through the sodden recesses of his mind.

_When you protect the past, you lose the future._

But it hurt too much just hearing her voice to really understand what the words themselves meant.

So he left the banner as it was and staggered off.

To his crummy little tin can of an empty, lonely trailer.

_I bet there's more booze in there. Look at this, I'm almost out. Can't have that. Nooope._

* * *

Bette and Dot.

After he narrowly missed bashing his brains out against his kitchen table . . .

_Crap, I missed. That woulda solved everything._

. . . he saw them.

And was so relieved they weren't dead at the hands of Dandy or Gloria. Or Elsa.

_Heyyyyy, where you girls been?!_

And confused.

_Uh, why you sitting on my bed? I was planning on laying down there, takin' a nap, maybe wetting myself a little bit. Sooo, you might wanna move._

They had an awful lot of words. Dot did anyway.

Too many for him to really think through and sort out.

But he did know one thing.

He was glad to see them.

He just couldn't figure out why they were waiting for him in his trailer.

And they looked real pretty.

All brunette and blond, wrapped in some silky, goldy, honey-looking thing.

_Honey, I fed Barb honey. Wait . . ._

It seemed wrong to think about that little tryst just now.

_Yeah, Little Miss Mystic thought it was wrong too . . ._

But that seemed even wronger to think about than the food so Jimmy summoned all the willpower he had and tried to focus just on Dot.

Who was talking about being whole and being separated . . .

_As drunk as I am, I cannot see how that would possibly work. _

Talking about family.

_What a load of bunk. _

And he broke in, tried to form words to explain how it didn't matter, nothing mattered, everybody left and everybody moved on and everything was pointless.

But then he got all sidetracked again when Dot touched his hand. His deformed lobster hand.

So gently. So calmly. So lovingly.

And moved it away from the bottle.

And to her own soft face.

And reached out with her sincere, warm words like a gentle morning breeze blowing away the thick, heavy fog of his inebriation.

Offering herself up to him.

For his comfort.

For his peace.

For his love.

For his pleasure.

She didn't seem to want to take anything from him. Only to give him whatever he needed to be whole again.

Like she now felt.

And he pulled himself away from the hypnotizing trance of her dark, honest eyes.

To talk to Bette.

Because she was a person too.

A completely different person that might not appreciate being left out of a conversation that had really a lot to do with her.

She was also blonde now, which was distracting. And she had not spoken throughout her sister's entire speech.

In fact, she'd seemed to remove herself entirely, as much as that was possible, to order to give them privacy.

And now he could not bear the thought of invading hers first without her permission.

But she seemed united, metaphorically speaking, with her sister.

And Jimmy'd never experienced anything like that in his life.

He couldn't understand it, couldn't process it at all.

The devotion and unity and love they had for each other.

When he had nothing, absolutely nothing. And no one. Not really.

And as he was trying to sort it out and understand it all . . .

_Man, being sober for this conversation would be _so_ much easier . . ._

. . . Dot said a word he'd never heard any woman say in relation to him.

Wife.

_Wife?_

As in companion? Helpmeet? Support? Confidante?

Someone you could depend on for the long haul and keep only for yourself as special?

And as he was now trying to sort through the concept of this new word and idea, she kissed him.

Sweetly, lovingly, tenderly.

With tears of happiness and hope still moist upon her cheeks.

And he kissed her back.

Well, tried.

Did Bette nuzzle up against him? Or did she turn away into herself like she'd said she would?

He didn't know.

All he knew was that he couldn't do it.

He could defile a lot of things.

His mind. His body.

His profession, if that was even the word for it.

Women, some women, those women.

But . . . not her.

Or her.

She was so sincere.

And he just knew it would be wrong.

Wronger than anything else he'd done.

He cared about her.

And by default, her sister as well.

And he just couldn't do it.

He couldn't lie and hurt her.

So he told the truth and hurt her.

That he loved someone else.

_But does that even matter anymore? Would she even take me back after all the awful things I've said and done? Should she even?_

But instead of following that train of thought along its twisting, curving track and crashing headlong into the deadhead at its bitter end, he forced himself to refocus on her.

And as gently as his clumsy, fumbling fingers could, covered her strange, lovely beauty back up.

She held her pain lightly in dignity and spoke compassionate words to him even then, with tears rolling down her cheeks.

And left him alone.

To hate himself.

And wish he was dead.

_Well, hey, no time like the present, I guess. Better get to work on that._

Grabbing the nearly empty bottle, Jimmy planned to drink himself blind so he wouldn't have to feel anymore, think anymore, know anymore.

_And to think, I wasted all my hopes and dreams on another no-good drunk. Like his father._

And to finally get rid of Ma's haunting voice echoing in his wretched drunk brain and broken drunk heart.

_No, Ma, I'm not a waste!_

_I don't wanna be a leftover thrown out! _

_I _meant_ to be good, to make you proud! _

_I'm sorry!_

Screaming at the world, at the bottle, at himself. Trying to think through the thick, soupy fog of drunk, sick that he had become.

_I don't _want_ to be like this anymore. _

_This isn't any way to live._

_I need to get clean or I need to get dead._

_But . . . but, I can't do it on my own._

_How?_

And then he heard something. Through the ringing in his ears and the pounding in his skull, Jimmy Darling and Jimmy Darling's drunken, sick, miserable prayers were answered in a way he did not anticipate.

With police sirens.

* * *

**Okay, whew. *wipes brow* Well, we finally made it through that ep. I'm emotionally exhausted now. Think I'll go have a lie down. **

**Honestly, these two chapters have been the most difficult to write, hands down. And I'm so glad to have finally burst through that wall. Thank you to brigid1318 for helping me. You're a lifesaver :D**

**Thanks to brigid1318, Juarana Keri, Strummer** **Pink**, **goodnight-to-the-morning, and The Cry-Wank Kid for reviewing.**


	15. A Bad Business

I do not own American Horror Story: Freak Show.

It is starting to turn that corner that I dread. The shrivel-up-and-die corner, I call it.

Just People

A Bad Business

* * *

Drying out after a long bender is a bad business. Most carnies never really dried out; they just stayed somewhat damp.

Because drying out is difficult.

It hurts your body. Makes it ache. Makes it burn. Makes the frayed nerve endings sing like mixed-up, twanging sharp and flat notes on a violin.

When you dry out, you need dark.

You need quiet.

You need calm.

You need rest.

You need water.

Drying out is hard in the best of circumstances.

Drying out in jail is worse.

Nobody cares. Nobody listens. Nobody worries if you live or die.

And since Jimmy Darling was a killer of women, he was really left alone.

* * *

Jimmy Darling paced.

He paced and he paced and he paced.

Back and forth. Up and down.

Until his head spun and his stomach roiled and he thought he would be sick all over again.

It had been days. He had been trapped in here for days.

Alone.

With nothing but his sick, twisting, swirling, miserable thoughts.

And he thought he might go crazy.

One good thing about his lone jail cell?

Indoor plumbing. Which only proved to be a slight comfort to him in his self-inflicted hell.

_Jeez, is it _all_ liquor? Am I just peeing straight booze? Ow, it burns. _

And then washed his sweat-slick face in the sink with his trembly hands.

He was scared.

More scared than he'd ever been in his entire life.

They said they were going to fry him.

Because they said he'd killed all those Tupperware ladies.

And he couldn't remember anything, _anything_, past staggering up to the backdoor of the house and knocking.

_Hey, I'm Jimmy. I'm here to finger banger you and your friends. Well, not all of you at once. I'm not that dextrous. We'll have to do it one at a time, I think._

But beyond that, it was black.

Until he woke up in a crumpled, nasty, stinking heap on the jail cot.

Alone. Confused. Terrified.

Took in his surroundings. Dirty green and white walls. Tiny, barred window, that let in thin shafts of dusty light.

Empty cot against the wall opposite his.

Remembering Meep's mangled, violated body.

Little barred window set in heavy steel door.

Asking the guard why he was there. The guard's sniggering reply.

_Already going for the insanity plea, freak? _

And feeling a crippling, sick fear ice icicling throughout his aching body and throbbing head.

Digging a little more information out of the surly guard, who maliciously fingered his billyclub and gun holster as he conversed.

Turning and lurching over to the bare toilet bowl and throwing up violently all over again.

Rinsing out his mouth with iron-y water from the sink that made his teeth ache as his eyes saw spots.

_Couldn'ta done it. Couldn'ta._

_Could I?_

He remembered how he'd yelled Maggie, pushed her.

_Pushing is a long way off from killing, Jimmy boy._

But he had killed before, hadn't he?

Yeah, that detective way back when the world still held possibility and hope.

Back when Ma Petite still grinned her toothy smile at him and Meep still bit the heads off chickens while Jimmy tried not to cringe.

Back when Ma still smiled at him and drew breath.

Back even before Maggie and her red lips and sad eyes and little smiles had shown up on the scene.

Back before when everything was normal. As normal as life could get for a carnie, anyway.

Back before all that, he'd killed.

The man had pushed and Jimmy's temper had snapped and he'd whipped a thin, sharp blade across the man's exposed throat and watched him bleed out on the fancy Oriental rug.

He even remembered thinking, through his rage and roaring thoughts, _Wash that, gonna have to wash that or Elsa'll be pissed_.

So he _could_ kill. He _had_ killed.

But that was quick, impetuous.

And in defense of the twins.

But afterward, the butchering of the body to hide the evidence.

That had just been brutal. Viscious.

And he'd led his friends in doing it.

All of them.

Except Ma. And Elsa.

Even tiny, precious, sweet, little Ma Petite had joined in.

And he'd let them, encouraged them. _Demanded_ they do it.

He wished, as he had time and time again, that he could take it all back.

He would regret it every day of his life, the base savagery he had brought out in them.

_Maybe I deserve to die for it._

But this, murdering those innocent women, gouging out their eyes, slicing them to ribbons and throwing them in the pool to float like gruesome bath toys, that wasn't Jimmy Darling.

Was it?

He couldn't think.

And he couldn't remember.

_You're in a bad way, Jimmy boy. A very bad way. No doubt about that. _

_Oh good, you're back. Didn't I get rid of you?_

_You tried. But once the liquor goes away I come back. And you should be glad. 'Cause I'm here to help you._

_Help me? Whaddya gonna do? Talk me to death?_

_No, I'm going to help you survive._

Survive? Survive what? Being labeled as a killer of women? A _freak_ killer of women?

But no, it was impossible. It couldn't be.

Could it?

There was something else.

Something gnawing at the back of his pulsating, sick brain.

What had that guard said when he woke up? What had the cop told him?

A glove left at the Tupperware party.

Jimmy's glove.

But, had he even worn his gloves that day? He usually did to avoid the sidelong looks and not so subtle whisperings.

But had he that day?

He couldn't remember.

He'd been _really_ drunk.

And in a blind, confused, ugly way.

_Wanting_ people to see, _wanting_ people to look.

So he could give them some of their own ugliness back.

_Whaddya see here, folks? Do you see a freak? 'Cause that's what I'm looking at! All a buncha high and mighty _freaks_! One of your own, one of your richies, is a clown dressing _freak_! He tried to kill my friend, woulda too if I hadn't whopped him! That's right! Dandy Mott!_

Dandy.

Dandy had been wandering around camp. Alone. And when Jimmy'd confronted him in a drunken, blurry haze, Dandy had said something, something really important.

He'd said something while Jimmy lay wallowing in the dirt like a bleary, disgusting sot of a drunk. He'd said . . .

What? He'd said what?

Jimmy couldn't remember.

He sunk down on his cot, cold, clammy, freak hands clasped together. Let his head hang.

And tried to think.

_Come on, Jimmy boy, come on. You can do this, you lobster handed idiot. Come _on_ . . ._

He'd said . . . he'd said . . .

He would destroy him and everything he loved.

That's what he said and then he'd risen and walked away, leaving Jimmy on the ground with the world spinning and his head buzzing and his gut gurgling.

And now Jimmy was in here and Dandy was out there.

And that meant that if Dandy really was planning on hurting him, on destroying everything he loved, there was no one out there to protect his friends.

Paul. Evie. Barbara. Dell. Suzi. Desiree. Maggie. Elsa, even. He didn't want anything to happen to them.

_But what do I do? What _can_ I do, stuck in here?_

_What indeed, Jimmy boy?_

Then his thoughts were interrupted by a clanging on his cell door.

Jimmy Darling had a visitor.

* * *

Not any of his friends.

No.

Carnies didn't show up to places like jails.

Too much authority. Too much government. Too many prying eyes.

No, Jimmy Darling was alone.

Abandoned by his friends, who couldn't help him anyway.

He hadn't expected anybody to come.

But when the guard said someone did, Jimmy immediately thought of her.

Maggie.

That red lipped, blond-haired, lovely girl.

Come to see him? Forgive him? Believe in him?

He could vaguely remember her voice screaming his name amid the sirens.

Maggie Esmerelda.

If she showed up and believed in him, then he would finally know once and for all that he hadn't done it.

She was a mystic after all, right? She could see things. She _knew_ things.

She could tell him he was innocent.

Even if it couldn't be proven in a court law, _he_ would _know_.

And then he would be able to whole-heartedly fight for his freedom.

Because he'd know he really and truly deserved it.

But it wasn't her.

In fact, it wasn't a friend at all.

But someone come to help nonetheless.

There was only one price.

And it was steep.

One Jimmy Darling didn't know if he could pay.

* * *

He'd told Mr. Spencer that it was all black after arriving at the Tupperware party.

He'd lied.

Sorta.

He got flashes, disjointed moments in time.

Few and far between that didn't make much sense.

Twins. Kissing him. Crying.

Women. Pinched faces and horrified expressions.

Sirens, screams.

Christmas music.

Bright sunlight and bile in his throat.

And Ma.

Holding him. So disappointed and sorrowful.

And gone.

Jimmy Darling sat alone on his jail cot. Held his miserable, sick head in his deformed lobster hands.

_If I get out of this, I'm never drinking again. Ever._

_I'll remember you said that, Jimmy boy._

* * *

**Okay, notice the timeline of events? Dandy tells cop he's going to get away with what he's done and offers him a cool million to work for him. Next thing you know, cop arrests Jimmy for the Tupperware murders and **_**now**_** he suddenly has evidence. And it's the **_**same**_** cop. I mean, **_**hello**_**?! It may not work that way but . . .**

**Anyway, this may be AU come the next few eps, but hey I guess we'll just have to wait and see if any of Jimmy's brain cells are still working. **

**And his hands. *shudders**

**So thanks to brigid1318 (lil' Jimmy XD) and Psychopathic Kitty (me too, sweetie, me too) for your ongoing reviews.**

**I'll see you all again after the new ep on January 7. Unless of course I'm too busy twitching under couch. **


	16. Visitations

I do not own American Horror Story: Freak Show.

See Ryan Murphy systematically breaking down his wonderful characters? Yeah, me too. Dang, man.

Just People

Visitations

* * *

Pain.

So. Much. Pain.

Radiating through his body in waves, sickening, nauseating waves.

He couldn't breathe. He couldn't think.

It was so bad.

"Can . . . help . . . give me something for the pain?"

The floating white image in front of him replied with a curt tone.

"I don't think so. My friend Myrna was at that Tupperware party."

Then she turned away and his vision broke apart.

_But . . . I didn't do it . . ._

The pain. It was everywhere.

And he hazily remembered that he had promised one of his lobster hands to Richard Spencer.

The left.

He lifted it and the pain, white hot and sheering, intensified, as he beheld his bloody stump.

_It's gone, it's gone, oh god, it's really gone, I was such an idiot . . ._

But the remaining one didn't feel quite right either.

And Jimmy Darling looked.

And he screamed.

And screamed.

* * *

When he came to, his entire body was numb.

He could still see the bloody wrapped stumps dangling at the end of his wrists.

He just couldn't feel them. Or his feet.

_They broke my spine, snapped my neck to shut me up. I'm just a head now . . ._

Then he cleared and remembered.

He had screamed so loud and so long that the sanitarium doctor had come in and injected him with something to shut him up.

The nurse had been with him and never said a word, just marked her little chart and walked away.

And Jimmy Darling had, mercifully, fallen asleep.

But now he was awake.

And in no pain.

Which was why he was able to smell the food.

_Mmmm, food. _

Mashed potatoes with butter. Fried chicken with a crispy skin. Corn.

He rolled his eyes lazily to the left.

And there it was.

A blue tray of just the food he'd been smelling.

With apple slices and jello.

And a glass of water.

_Oh, water. I am _so_ thirsty._

And he wanted it.

But eating required hands.

And a body not strapped down to a cot.

So that food was just as far away to him as The Great Wall of China.

His eyes slid closed for a moment.

"Well, this is a fine fix you've gotten yourself into."

His eyes shot open in confusion.

And saw her.

Ma.

Sitting in a chair near the wall.

Dressed in a blue dress with tiny white polka dots. Red trim along the collar.

Her graying hair was neatly brushed and her full beard bushy and brown.

She was looking at him.

"_Ma?"_

His voice was barely more than a whisper but she heard it all the same.

"Hey, son."

He frowned, squeezing his eyes shut tight and opening them again.

Still there.

"You . . . you . . ."

His voice trailed off, he couldn't think straight enough to figure out what he meant to say.

She stayed there, very still. Watching. Listening. Waiting.

"I missed you," he confessed in a broken and cracked voice. "I've been so lost without you."

She looked around in bemusement.

"Yeah, I can see that. Damn mess here, that's for sure."

Shame for his situation welled up in him. That this was all his fault. If he hadn't got so wasted and worthless, he wouldn't have gotten mixed up in all this.

"I didn't do it, Ma! I didn't kill those girls!"

She tossed him one of her patented Ethel Darling knowing smiles and spoke dismissively.

"Oh, I know that, Jimmy. I'm your mother. I brought you into this world; we've got the same skin. I know you didn't do it."

He felt a swelling of relief at her words and started to smile.

"But it ain't me you gotta convince. It's that judge and jury that wants to put you the 'lectric chair, not me."

His blossoming smile vanished as her words punched him in the stomach.

"But that's why I sold my hand, Ma. To pay for a good lawyer to prove my innocence."

She nodded toward the bloody stumps.

"And how's working out for you?"

He dropped his eyes away from her in humiliation.

"Not so well. He was only supposed to take the left one to this guy he knows. I don't know why he took both."

Ethel Darling huffed now, clearly agitated at her bed-ridden progeny.

"Come _on_, Jimmy. Cripes, I'm beginning to think I raised a simpleton."

He frowned at her, at her hurtful and harsh words.

"You've got to get your head out of the _clouds_, son. And see the world and the people in it for what they truly are."

He couldn't try to puzzle it out anymore. The medicine was wearing off and he feel the pain coming back a little at a time, like widening ripples in the middle of a pond of dark water.

He glanced over at the food.

"They left some food. Would you help me eat a little? Please?"

She shook her head sorrowfully and he swore he saw her image shimmer like vibrating glass for a second.

"Can't, son."

"Why not?"

He knew he sounded pitiful, weak, and helpless but he couldn't help it.

She sighed.

"Because I'm not real, Jimmy. I'm dead. You know that. I'm a hallucination from the morphine. When you wake up, I'll be gone."

His face crumpled and his eyes immediately swelled with tears.

"No, Ma, please don't leave again! What am I gonna do without you? Look at me! I'm a freak! Even more of a freak than I was before!"

She nodded regretfully but there was steel in her eyes too.

"Yes, you are, son. And I'm truly sorry for that. But don't you let Paul hear you whine. Or Suzi. They've never had full, functional limbs to lose and you don't hear them complaining."

He lay there, bottom lip trembling, eyes leaking bitter tears.

"In fact, once you get out here, you can get healed up and get you some fake hands and be just fine."

The sullen, petulant child within him reared its self-pitying head.

"Are you kidding, Ma? Why would they ever let _me_ out?"

She stared right into his eyes.

And smirked.

"Well, who else you gonna kill with no hands?" she snarked lightly.

He had forgotten her biting wit and how she used it from time to dig the fight out of the carnies just enough keep them going when they were low.

"_Ma!"_

She shrugged, the hint of a gleam in her eye.

"What? It's true."

He stared at her, unable to comprehend the entire situation.

And then she shimmered again, stronger this time.

"Ma!"

Panic surged through him, mixing with the pain and its ripples in their slowly widening orbit.

To his weary relief, she solidified once more.

"I love you, Jimmy. Always have. Always will. And I want you to promise me something."

He reflexively tried to reach out for her, causing stronger ripples of pain throughout his fresh stump wounds.

She rose slowly, moving toward him. When she reached the side of the bed, she stopped.

"When you get out of here, I want you to stay away from the drink for good. It's caused enough suffering for us both."

He nodded, desperate to keep her with him.

"Yeah, sure, Ma, of course."

She poked him in the chest then, her eyes stern and hard.

"I mean it now, Jimmy. No fooling about! No more! If that's the only lesson you've learned from this ordeal, let it be something."

He gazed straight into her blue eyes, knowing deep down that it was the last time he'd get the chance.

"I will, Ma."

She smiled then, just a little.

Leaned down, and kissed his forehead.

He closed his eyes, relishing in her touch, something he had not done so blatantly since he was a young boy.

And when he opened his eyes, she was gone.

And he was alone.

It didn't stop him from whispering four wretched little words.

"I love you, Ma."

* * *

He might have lain there for seconds, or minutes, or hours, or days.

Staring at the four walls surrounding him.

Alone with his widening ripples of pain.

And without his mother.

Until suddenly the door to his cell opened.

And in walked his father.

* * *

**So, is anybody else emotionally destroyed from the new episode? Jimmy, no! Doogie, no!**

**Yes, I cheated from the time Ethel talked to Dell right before he tried to hang himself. Except she touches Jimmy and she didn't touch Dell. Because she hates Dell and loved Jimmy.**

**But hey, why wouldn't she come back for her son? I mean, why wouldn't he hallucinate his ma coming back for him?**

**Which one is it? **

**You decide.**

**Thanks to iwritexx, The Cry-Wank Kid, good-night-to-the-morning, and brigid1318 for your continuing reviews! You're so very fantastic.**

**See you again soon!**


	17. Magical Thinking

I do not own American Horror Story: Freak Show.

Which is good, 'cause, boy, did _this_ thing go bat crap crazy!

Just People

Magical Thinking

* * *

Jimmy Darling lay sweating and exhausted on his narrow cot.

Dell was gone now.

He was almost relieved to be alone.

It had been an exercise in misery and frustration, talking to Dell.

Dad.

Whatever.

His thinking and emotions were dull and clouded by the morphine slowly drooling out of his nervous system.

That lingering morphine being pushed aside by the widening ripples of pain like algae on the banks of a soggy, sludgy pond.

The stirred up emotions were dulled, but they were there.

Relief at finally seeing a familiar, friendly face.

_Dell, Dad, oh thank god, _somebody_ . . ._

Quickly smashed in the face by an unanticipated surge of helpless, impotent rage.

_Where have you been all this time?! I needed you! You left me here to rot! I had to sell my hands! My _hands_!_

And the shame, the shame of looking the man in the eye and telling him the awful, sorry truth.

Seeing the abject horror on his face which only needled his shame and rage further.

_Well, I had to do _something_! You abandoned me! You _all_ abandoned _me_! Stupid, selfish, cowardly _freaks_!_

As the incapacitated, wasted creature in the bed tried to make sense of it all again in his mind.

Desperate to hold on to a scrap of belief, a scrap of faith that there was a _reason_ for all this.

It became increasingly difficult the more he talked, the more he looked at Dell.

And Dell talked back at him.

Telling Richard Spencer wasn't to be trusted, that he was a rotten, lying prick.

_Well, _there's_ a shock, Jimmy boy . . ._

_Shut up . . ._

The sorrow, the grief on his broad face.

The agony for his son, his son and his degraded position.

And something else as well.

Something deeper underneath the surface.

Something yellow. Something ill. Something bloated with guilt and remorse.

_How _did_ he know him, Jimmy boy? How did he know he was bad? And why didn't he tell you before?_

_I . . . don't know . . . I can't think . . ._

_Sure you can. If you only try. _

_But I don't want to. It hurts too much. _

And it did. It did hurt way too much.

Inside and out, at his bloody, putrid stumps of his lobster hands.

And at his center. At his heart. Where he'd once believed his soul to be.

Before Ma'd died and it'd begun to rot out of his body.

Dell even fed him. Like you would feed a baby.

Spoon to mouth, bit by bit.

Slightly cold, lumpy mashed potatoes.

Nothing had ever tasted so good in his life.

Or so bad.

Thick, sticky potatoes.

Seasoned with shame, humiliation, and regret.

Tinged with the smell of desperate, dying, wheezing hope and belief and faith.

Turned his famished, starving stomach sour and sick even more, but he'd forced it down, kept it down.

Because he needed it.

And something still, cold part of him whispered he needed to feel those bad things too. Face up to what he'd done and what he'd been and what he was now.

Even though he really didn't want to.

Dell told him a story, a fairy tale.

Some silly thing a carnie'd tell a gullible rube. About a chef and kitchen tools for hands and opening a restaurant and living happily ever after.

And then they talked about the freak show.

Jimmy buying it from Elsa Mars, future Hollywood starlet.

A hazy, scrabbling, desperate hope if there ever was one.

And Dell, good, doting Dell, had jumped up on that wagon, taken the reins, and proceeded to drive Jimmy and his bloody stumps into the Toledo and Son's Freak Show sunset.

Jimmy felt like crying, like screaming.

Like dying a million deaths.

Because he wanted to believe in something so badly. Anything, just to keep from going insane.

And Dell was trying to give that to him in any way he could.

Offering up magical thinking to get him through.

Jimmy could say that it worked.

And he'd even managed to chuckle a little bit . . .

_Go ahead and laugh now, Jimmy boy. But you still gotta figure out how to wipe your own butt._

. . . but it hadn't lasted long.

Those pie in the sky dreams might have.

If only the morphine were a little stronger and his pain were a little more distant.

But it wasn't.

It was right there.

Embracing him, caressing him, stroking him with ragged, fire tipped fingers of searing pain.

So when Dell'd told his own miserable tale and finally left, it was just him alone again.

Him and his bloody, howling stumps.

Jimmy Darling closed his eyes and tried to sleep, tried to escape the pain.

It was all he could really think to do.

* * *

They'd dutifully kept him from dying, those cold-eyed, coarse nurses and doctors.

They'd done their job as their professional oaths insisted they do.

Sewn up his stumps, wrapped them in gauze, pumped him full of antibiotics.

Jimmy Darling and his bloody lobster-handedless stumps would live.

So the good people of the state of Florida could fry him.

Like a sadistic, twisted, murderous turkey before the holiday electric chair of justice.

And now they were taking him back to jail.

They'd throw him in the deepest, dankest cell they had.

They stand and gawk and laugh as he ate his food face first in the plate like a groveling pig.

Snap pictures and snark as he soiled himself and begin to reek, unable to attend to his toiletry needs without hands.

Turn a deaf ear to his muted whimpers and moans of pain as his open, seeping wounds wailed in the hopeless blackness of the night.

And then they'd righteously and without ever giving it a second thought, watch him, without friend or ally or even a decent lawyer, be judged guilty and condemned to the electric chair.

The world was over for Jimmy Darling.

He could only pray they wouldn't choose to turn him over to the rapists and the sodomites before it was all said and done.

They'd probably laugh then too.

Despite the suffocatingly humid air of the back of the cop truck, Jimmy shivered and shook from head to toe.

He was terrified.

And in pain.

And completely alone.

Because in the face of uncertainty and unknown horror at what he might be about to face, even that still, silent voice in his head had been struck mute and dumb.

And all that magical thinking was gone.

* * *

**Hey, all! Sorry I've been gone so long. Can you believe how far behind I got? *facepalm* Got sidetracked (there's a shock) but now I'm back and ready to finish up this train wreck of a Freak Show ending if you're still interested. No matter how much the finale befuddled me on **_**so**_** many levels, I can't just leave our Jimmy alone here in the pit. **

**So I'm going to try to make sense of it all. I can only say that I'm glad Ryan Murphy (the television version of Quentin Tarantino) saw fit to give some of our heroes a happy ending. Even if it did cross my eyes and make me twitch for **_**days**_**.**

**Well, anyway, thanks to shyangel101, to-the-fireflies, The Cry-Wank Kid, Jurana Keri, brigid1318, and my mystery guest for reviewing so long ago when Ma Ethel came to try to talk some sense into her son. **


	18. A Warm Blanket of Hate

I do not own American Horror Story: Freak Show.

Which is good, 'cause, boy, did _this_ thing go bat crap crazy!

Just People

* * *

Jimmy Darling was not very doing well.

At all.

Yes, the beautiful, robust Amazon Eve and the unpredictable strongman Dell Toledo had staged a heck of a daring prison break to rescue him from the clutches of the pig cops taking him back to jail.

And they'd nearly killed him in the process, the screeching vehicle jerking him all over the inside of the back like a ragdoll. He'd banged his stumps a coupla times and nearly vomited from the lightening surges of pain.

But they'd broken him out, Evie and Dell. Unlocked the ankle manacles and stolen him away.

Stumbling and staggering and weak and sick.

Until Eve'd practically had to carry his sorry, blubbering, bloody self the last bit of the way.

So, yes, he was now hidden safe away in some barely standing barn in an overgrown field where nobody would ever find him.

And he wasn't going to be set ablaze in the electric chair any time soon.

But he was still completely handless.

And morphineless.

He couldn't even scratch his own nose.

Or wipe his own butt.

Or feed himself.

All that was bad enough.

But at least his shame and degradation were only on brutal display to Evie and Dell.

Or had been.

But now here was the gloating, conniving Elsa Mars.

Now strangely disquieted and not so focused on herself.

Telling him Dell was dead.

Dell Toledo, of the famous Toledo Lobster Clan, the freak-normal among freaks.

Who'd once lived in fear of his father. Of his cruel words, of the harsh man who threatened to bite off his own son's normal, unfused fingers.

That man. Dell.

His father.

Was dead.

By them all.

_What does that even mean? There's too much pain in here to try to figure this out, Elsa._

_It means just what you think it means, Jimmy boy. It means the freak show is a united front, a family. And they'll protect their own. Even against you, a handless, pitiful, useless freak._

_Why won't you just go _away_?!_

_Because that's not how it works, Jimmy boy. You can't ignore it. You can't turn away. You've got to face it. Because it's what you are._

She continued to feed him, the high and mighty Elsa Mars. Calmly, kindly feeding him. The sweaty, whiny, crying sadsack stuck in the bed.

In his plaid flannel pajamas and his slick, pinched face screwed up with wretchedness and pain.

Bland oatmeal or some crap.

While he tried to sort through everything in his hazy, roiling, putrescent helplessness.

And that slut of an untrustworthy trollop, Maggie Esmerelda.

Or whatever the hell her real name was.

Standing there, looking at him with revulsion.

And pity.

And fear.

Elsa, lecturing him.

Him, stubbornly ignoring her words, her insistences. Her hollow reassurances.

_Who can help me?! Nobody can help me! Stop deluding yourself, you dried up old bag! I'd rather be dead! But I can't even make that happen! I can't even kill myself!_

Elsa, throwing out a final command to let the blond scarecrow to her right clean him up.

Then leaving him alone.

_Finally._

With her.

_Balls._

That blond, red-lipped tramp, sitting on the edge of his cot, practically trembling and quaking.

So timid and vulnerable.

_I used to think I might love you, that I would be so lucky to get to love you. I hate you now. I hate you forever._

Her moving his stumps, trying to be gentle . . .

_Oh god, no, don't _move_ them!_

. . . only succeeding in causing refreshed, screaming agony.

_Hateyouhateyouhateyouhateyouhateyou . . ._

Removing the gauze, pressing liquid fire to his sewn up stumps.

Blabbing on in her pathetic warbly voice, words he couldn't bear to listen to.

Reassuring, empty words droning on and droning in a feeble attempt to soothe him in his anguish and pain.

Just like Dell had done.

Dell, his father.

Dell, who killed Ma Petite.

Dell, who was dead.

_Hateyouhateyouhateyouhateyouhateyou . . ._

And he couldn't bear it.

Not this existence. Not the pain.

_Not my mother. Not my hands. Not Ma Petite. Not by Dell. Oh god, no._

Ma Petite, with her dusky skin, her tiny body always wrapped in such pretty dainty clothes.

Ma Petite with her sparkly bindi high above her bright, warm smile.

Murdered and stuck in jar . . . by _Dell_?

_I can't believe in anybody. I can't believe in anything. Is this how it was for you, Ma? No wonder you killed your-_

_Still believin' _that_ bunk, Jimmy boy?_

_Just go AWAY!_

So first he let that her know how much he hated her, how insane she was to think there was anything salvageable there at all.

Let her know that she would die if she was still there when he got his new hands.

He thought he would wrap his hands around her scrawny little throat.

And squeeze.

And squeeze.

And squeeze.

As he was staring into her big, pitiful eyes and daydreaming of throttling the life from her body, she rebandaged his other stump.

Once again reassured him of her undying loyalty and absolute love.

Stood up and gazed at him as he stubbornly drove nails into her blue eyes with his hate filled dark ones.

And then she escaped out into the sunnily lit world walking on her long, shapely legs.

And clutching her box of torture instruments to her thin chest with her two whole, fully functional, pain free hands.

He finally fell mercifully unconscious then, the pain and the shock and trauma overwhelming him and dragging him gratefully down into the empty, quiet, floating blackness.

And dreamed of her.

His little sister Indian princess.

Dreamed of her.

In her rabbit fur coat, smiling and warm and alive in that long ago Wisconsin winter, the snow sparkling all around her.

The little Indian snow princess.

* * *

**You know, Jimmy got a lot of backlash for whining so much about not having hands and yelling and wailing like a big baby in this ep.**

**And I get that. I really do. We don't want to see our sexy, confident boy brought low and base.**

**But dudes, he seriously has no hands! And probably no pain killers at this point either. **

**So . . . yeah, I'm gonna cut him at little slack, okay? ;)**

**Dear Gracious Guest, thanks for the review and I think I'll be updating daily 'til it's completed because I wrote everything today during the fanfic outage (seriously, man, what the fruit?!). I swear I don't always do this but I am driven right now. Driven like a Mack truck, baby. Ha!**

**Thanks so much to Jurana Keri and brigid1318 for coming back to this after so long away. Sorry once again, guys. My bad.**


	19. One More Pipedream

I do not own American Horror Story: Freak Show.

Which is good, 'cause, boy, did _this_ thing go bat crap crazy!

Just People

One More Pipedream

* * *

_I gotta pee. I really gotta pee. But I'm sleeping._

He shifted, felt the pain greet him as a long lost lover.

_Oh yeah and I have no hands. How do I pee with no hands?_

He blinked, trying to fight his way past the sleep, the pain, and the urge to relieve his bladder.

It wasn't the first time he'd awoken like this.

He'd been here in this barn for several days.

In agony.

In despondency.

In isolation.

Elsa. Maggie. Evie.

They'd come.

They fed him. Changed his bandages. Helped him clean up. Tried to reassure him and bring him cheer.

He hated them all.

And their working hands.

And pain free bodies.

The only one he could begin to stomach was Evie.

But even her pinched and worried face made him wish to be alone again.

_Don't look at me like that, Evie. Like I'm dead and bloated. Remember all the good times we've had? Yeah, me neither._

And now he was awake again.

In the middle of the long, dark night.

And there were lights.

Lamp light next to his bed, powered by a little generator.

And lightening, powered by the angry gods in the sky.

And Elsa Mars, powered by her own iron will and determination.

_Sure you're not the angel of death? Damn. Well, can you go get her? I'd like to talk to her instead. Tell her I'm ready. Tell her to come get me. Now._

But she didn't retreat. Didn't comply with his silent entreaty.

But she did force him to chug from a flask of whiskey.

_Hair of the dog, Elsa. That's what started this whole thing._

And it burned and hurt.

Along with everything else.

The dim light glinting off the syringe in her hands drew his gasping attention and fear swept through him.

Along with morbid curiosity.

_Wouldn't waste a drop of liquor on me just to kill me, would you, Elsa? _

And was introduced to a new face in the pale light.

A man with gray hair and an unpronounceable name.

And another pipe dream for Jimmy Darling.

Hands.

* * *

He didn't want them.

He didn't need them.

Fake, wooden hands.

_Too easy to set myself on fire with anyway._

Hooks would be better.

Hooks would be smarter.

Hooks would replace his freak hands.

And make him a whole different kind of freak.

But at least a freak with a chance.

_Are you suddenly contemplating _living_, Jimmy boy?_

_Yeah, maybe. Why? Disappointed?_

_No . . . glad. And proud._

_Aw, go sob somewhere else, puss. This idiot wants to give me stupid Pinocchio hands. Can you believe it? _

_Yeah, I can as a matter of fact. Not a bad idea, actually. Maybe something a little special?_

* * *

Massimo Dolcefino.

He'd decided now he would remember that name forever.

The odd foreign man who had shown up in the middle of the night in an abandoned field barn in Florida to give Jimmy Darling new hands.

And new hope.

If the outlandish tale were to be believed, Jimmy owed him his life before he'd ever lost his hands.

The man who had saved Elsa Mars from death.

A death she had ever spoken of before.

And probably never would again.

So that she may live on and create her Cabinet of Curiosities.

Bail Ma out of the drunk tank.

Save Jimmy from shattering abuse in an orphanage or going hungry on the streets.

And give them a home in their freak show.

While he suffered at the hands of the monster who had cut off her legs.

It was a long and murmured tale between the two of them.

And relayed in its misery to him.

Jimmy was still hazy and didn't catch it all.

But he caught enough.

Too much, really.

And so he thought he owed the man a little respect.

And Elsa Mars.

Because it just might be that the great freak show performer Elsa Mars, sometimes gentle and kind and sometimes wild and unpredictably dangerous, _did_ have a heart to go along with her shockingly wooden legs.

He thought.

Was pretty sure.

Possibly.

Either way, she had brought this soft spoken carpenter . . .

_Carpenter, carpenter, didn't Ma say Jesus was a carpenter?_

. . . to Jimmy Darling.

Who needed him so very badly.

And told him that outlandish, crazy tale.

That Jimmy completely believed.

* * *

Evie.

Evie was the one who told him.

About the faceless Chester.

And what he'd done to Maggie.

Jimmy didn't know how to feel.

He'd hated her, all his growing love for her shredded and chewed up in the revelations of what she had helped Richard Spencer do.

And now she was dead and gone.

And he didn't have to hate her anymore.

And he felt more empty and hollow than ever before, his insides swept clean by the lack of emotion he now held within him.

_When is all over, will I be like Massimo? Unable to love or feel anything?_

_Let's hope not, Jimmy boy. Sounds like a pretty drab existence to me._

_So why write to Elsa at all? Wouldn't it have been better to never reach out than to hurt her by being there and not loving her?_

_Maybe he thought he could try. What do you want to do?_

_I want to live. And I want hands._

* * *

After Evie left, Jimmy Darling sat alone and listened to the rumbling thunder.

He stared out the window toward camp, wondering at their schemes for Elsa's murder.

Why? Why? Were they doing it?

Evie hadn't told him the reason.

_Really? You can't figure it out for yourself, Jimmy boy?_

He thought he didn't really want to.

But he worried about them.

There were fewer left than ever before.

Paul. Suzi. Toulouse. Bette. Dot. Fat Barbara.

And of course, Evie. So strong and so gentle at the same time. Whatever she had to be whenever she had to be it.

They were out there, preparing to murder one of their very own freaks. He'd always thought he'd be their leader. That's what they had said they'd wanted.

It's what Ma wanted.

It's what she taught him to be.

And now he couldn't be anything but a useless lump.

_I wish I could do something for them. I wish I wasn't so useless._

_I wish I had hands again. _

He reached for the sketch Evie had seen and studied it carefully.

Hands.

Five fingered hands.

Two of them.

Wooden, yeah. But hands.

Like a _normal_ person would have.

Strangely enough, the prospect didn't give him as much happy anticipation as he'd felt in the hand dreams he'd had his entire life.

I miss . . . _my_ hands.

* * *

Stormy.

Was it always stormy?

It seemed it was.

For days and days, for _weeks_, the weather had been stormy and rainy.

Vengeful.

Ever since he'd lost his hands, it seemed the sky had swept tears and the gods had proclaimed their rage in the rumbling thunder and flashing lightning.

Or maybe he was just being silly.

Because why would the skies and the gods care anything about freakish Jimmy Darling?

And his new, wooden, lobster claw hands?

* * *

_My hands. _

_You gave me back my hands._

_I hid them, was ashamed of them my entire life._

_And then sold them in desperation to a huckster like a common, stupid, pie-in-the-sky rube._

_And now you've given them back to me. _

_They look just like they did. _

_I can't feel them. _

_I can't use them. _

_But they're back where they belong._

_On me._

_Thank you._

_Thank you so much. _

_My carpenter savior. _

_Massimo Dolcefino._

_Thank you._

* * *

**I'll be honest. I was initially baffled by the wooden lobster claws. He can't do a whole lot with them, not like he could with hooks. **

**But then Evan Peters did his puppy dog face and I nearly burst into tears and understood it all.**

**And still wanted to buy him back-up hooks.**

**So, anyway, thanks to the ever kind brigid1318, The Cry-Wank Kid, and Gracious Guest (yeah, me too. I just could never forgive her for what she's done.) for reviewing. I really appreciate you for speaking up. **

**Two more chapters, I believe. **

**And then the Freak Show will be over. Sorta. ;)**


	20. The Ticking Clock

I do not own American Horror Story: Freak Show.

Which is good, 'cause, boy, did _this_ thing go bat crap crazy!

Just People

The Ticking Clock

* * *

Jimmy was worried.

Evie'd told him how crazy and creepy Dandy Mott, the new owner of the freakshow, was.

Jimmy still couldn't figure out why in the _hell_ Elsa'd sold the show to him. It just didn't make sense.

As if she wanted them to all be killed and left to rot by the murderous man-child.

Evie'd also told him about how Paul'd finally cracked and told the little snot off and quit.

The grim joy of holding down the brat with one red sneakered shoe and watching Paul spit right in his primpy little face.

Jimmy tried to chuckle with her as she relived the small victory, but his heart twisted and clenched in his chest.

Because deep down, he knew that Dandy was the most dangerous of them all.

And anything, absolutely anything could set him off.

And if he snapped and went after them, Jimmy was stuck here, still fumbling to use his new wooden lobster hands.

Of no use to his friends at all.

A terrible, gut-wrenching thought.

Evie admired his new hands when he showed them to her.

And left, promising to return the next day.

And so he waited.

Waited with a pounding heart and a sick stomach.

Waited for someone, anyone to return.

Nobody ever did.

And eventually he couldn't take it anymore and went to go find his friends.

* * *

He did find them.

Most of them.

He wished to god he hadn't.

He wished they'd just up and vanished in the night like that pilgrim settlement his ma'd told him about one long ago Halloween night.

Simple confusion, bafflement, bewilderment, would have been better than this.

The half stale bread he'd gulped down minutes earlier felt like lead now in his stomach.

Like maggots of death and sickness and disease.

The same ones that were probably starting their unseen dirty work in the still bodies of his murdered friends that lay forever still and silenced in the blood-soaked ground of the Big Top tent.

Desiree found him there, nearly scaring him to death by sneaking up behind him.

He almost swung a wooden hand in defense before he caught sight of her swollen, tear-streaked face.

Oh, how glad he was that he didn't.

He grabbed her in desperation, crushing her to him in relief that she was alive. And in grief for his friends.

And she squeezed him right back, wailing her agony to the rafters.

They cried and wept together.

Lost and alone in the sea of their dead fellow freaks.

* * *

When they'd cried themselves dry for the time being, Desiree hollowly told him all she knew.

Dandy. The shootings. The fight and beating and final defeat of Amazon Eve.

Apparently that part had taken a bit more grit on Dandy's part.

_That's my girl, Evie. I hope you made him suffer. But not near like I'm going to._

He would have to think of something really _special_ for Dandy.

To pay him back a modicum of the misery and loss he'd caused them all.

And they had to rescue Bette and Dot.

Desiree had seen him taking them away in his flashy car.

They had gone quietly but even from a distance Desiree could see the fear upon their faces.

Fear that they kept wisely hidden from the deranged man guiding them so gently by the hand.

Jimmy didn't know what they were enduring at the hands of Dandy Mott.

And he couldn't help them. Not yet.

For now he had focus on burying his dead.

He and Desiree did it together.

It took a long, miserable time under the cold, pale light of the full moon.

He'd never known such a feminine woman with a flair for fashion and perfectly painted nails could heave a shovel like that. Or shriek like a raging banshee.

Therapy or something, he supposed.

They buried them all together in one mass grave. Because after all they'd suffered, it was unthinkable to make any of them spend eternity alone. They were friends, a family. They needed to be together now more than ever.

And so he put them together.

Wrapped Penny the Lizard Girl in the shortened tattooed arms of Paul the Illustrated Seal.

Laced the cold, stiffening hands of Amazon Eve and her sister-by-freak Legless Suzi.

Hung a fat Ima Wiggles arm around the small, stout Touloose.

He woulda liked that. He'd always found her fascinating.

Put the roustabouts side-by-side so they wouldn't have to ride the midnight train alone.

It was gruesome work, but Jimmy felt compelled to give them all one last sense of comradery, togetherness against the world that had first shunned and then finally destroyed them.

And when it was done, when they had patted the last of the dirt over the churned earth, his friends were all gone.

And he could never see them, any of them, again.

Talk to them.

Apologize to them for his unspeakable behavior.

Because they were gone.

And he was left.

He and Desiree, the three-breasted woman-and-then-some woman.

And Jimmy knew one of them didn't deserve to draw breath.

Should be buried in the ground with them, their slaughtered friends.

_It should have been me. They were better than me. They deserved to live more. Why should they have to die and I get to live?_

There was only one answer.

Vengeance.

* * *

After they finished burying their dead, Jimmy tried to say a few words about them, the innocent dead.

When his voice and heart failed, Desiree helped him speak a few more.

And then together, they made their way back through the weeds and thorns and brambles to the barn where he'd been hidden away as his friends had suffered and died.

The camp was soiled, cursed.

A land of death where they would not, could not, sleep.

They lay their wounded bodies and souls down onto the saggy, dirty cot where Jimmy had days earlier lain, praying to die.

Once upon a time, Jimmy, in rejection and loneliness, had sought sexual comfort from Desiree Dupree, before her body had betrayed its secret.

Now his touch and hers were both chaste.

She lay with her back to him, reached back, and wrapped his arm around her waist.

He held her tight, burying his face in her hair.

It smelled faintly of coconuts.

They left the light on.

And lay quiet and still, bitter tears leaking from their eyes, their souls torn and bleeding.

Taking comfort in each other's breathing. Each other's presence. Each other's _life_.

And finally fell into exhausted sleep.

And pitch black dreams.

* * *

It was ridiculously easy to sneak onto the Mott Estate property.

As if the resident within just knew that he was immortal and could never be harmed in any way.

_I'm going to disprove that delusion, Dandy, you freak._

They had a plan. It was a shaky, thin one.

That weighed heavily on the notion that Dandy Mott believed himself absolutely untouchable.

The follow-through was easier than expected.

Dismissing the help for the day. Boss's orders.

Finding Bette and Dot unharmed. The relieved, tearful reunion.

Asking them for their help.

The gleam in their eyes as they said 'yes, absolutely'.

Stealing away to prepare for the ruse of the targeted rube.

The tuxedo wasn't too comfortable.

And he hated his hair.

But it was just like the freak show. A performance.

And the idiot had fallen for it.

Hook, line, and sinker.

It was almost too easy.

Except the unconscious lug weighed a freakin' _ton_.

* * *

It almost remained forever in disuse, the Houdini escape tank.

Hidden away and lost amid all the other freak show props and sundries.

But Jimmy had found it.

And known it was just perfect.

Desiree wanted to brutalize the guy's manhood for life.

Jimmy wanted the _show_ of his life.

And he was going to get what he wanted.

They'd stripped the big guy of his clothes.

Put that perfectly toned, perfectly functional body on display.

The sleeping powder Desiree'd filled Dandy's drink with had been strong and taken quite a while to wear off.

So they'd had some extra time.

Time to arrange the chairs.

And pop the corn.

And get all hyped up and set.

It was going to be a great show.

* * *

Afterward, when the fog cleared and the world rebalanced itself, Jimmy Darling suspected he'd slipped sideways for a while there.

Gone a little insane himself.

Even so far as to think that the over-the-top demise of Mr. Dandy Mott was what Ma woulda wanted.

_I'm sorry, Ma. I was . . . I was . . . gone, I think. Maybe Elsa woulda wanted it. Not you._

Lack of sleep, recovering from massive bodily injury would cause a little out of character behavior, he later tried to rationalize.

Oh and the execution of all his friends.

But he had to admit, it had been quite a show.

He wouldn't tell any stories to his grandkids about it.

In fact, he'd decided afterward he would never speak of it again.

To Desiree. To Bette. To Dot.

To anyone.

But at the time, it was all he could have hoped for in a vengeance performance.

The greatest show on earth.

* * *

**A little literary freedom here. I hope it fits and I hope you don't mind.**

**To be honest, I always thought Evie would survive through to the end. **

**And Paul. **

**I was wrong. **

**And on a nitpicky note, I'm on Jimmy's side (mostly – this scene makes it a challenge) the whole 'it's what Ma would have wanted' thing really threw me for a loop. Maybe season 3 Madam LaLaurie, sure. But season four Ethel Darling? Eh, I got my doubts.**

**Well, anyway . . .**

**Tomorrow is the grand finale. And last chapter. You ready?**

**Thanks to brigid1318, Jurana Keri, and Gracious Guest for your reviews.**

**Yes, Gracious Guest, that's pretty much exactly what I was thinkin' too. Thanks for stealing my thought. ;)**


	21. The Greatest Show on Earth

I do not own American Horror Story: Freak Show.

Ready to swing for the fence? Good! Because here . . . we . . . go!

Just People

The Greatest Show on Earth

* * *

Act 1

The Opener

or

The Airing of the Grievances

or

Why We Hate Dandy Mott

The nearly naked idiot trapped in the tall glass case tried to appeal to them in every way he could.

It was absurd, really. All his desperate ploys.

The boss man summonth and commandth his minions.

_Kinda hard to command when you're trapped in a glass box. In your underwear. Let me check . . . nope, still white. Darn._

The Escape Tank was not his specialty.

_Aw, no time like the present to stretch your skill set! Come on, you're the star, seize the moment!_

Declaring his actions had been part of the Almighty's purpose for his life.

_Yeah, I don't really have a direct line to the Big Guy or anything, but I'm relatively sure He ain't cheering for your side of the game._

Appealing to Dot and Bette's sense of wifely duty and undying loyalty for their gentle, forgiving husband.

_Uh, guy? She _shot_ you. Don't think that falls into the order of the vows or anything. Next?_

Then of course it was time for their intelligent, well thoughtout, straightforward rebuttal.

_Hate you!_

_Murderer!_

_Biggest freak of them all!_

And when that cold water sprayed on the condemned from above and the pseudo-god glimpsed his impending doom, he found yet another bargaining chip in his bottomless bag of tricks.

It was a pretty good one, no doubt about it.

The offer of money.

_Mmm, money. Let me, uh, _ruminate_ on that for a second . . . naw, I'm good._

So much money.

_Weeeeeelllll . . . no._

And another nugget of shabbily painted fool's gold. Immortality. The inability to die.

_Cool! Let's see how long it takes an immortal to __drown__ of_ boredom_ then, shall we?_

And finally the script of the Grand Poopah and his dampened tightie whities was depleted in its entirety.

The stage was set for the Final Sentencing of the Ridiculous Bastard. And his Whole Rotten World.

Defeat. Utter and absolute defeat of the Great and Powerful Dandy Mott.

And anyone else who stood to harm them.

More than that.

Death.

Because they would always stick together until the very end.

And the normal people of the world, the undependable ones, the untrustworthy ones, would always in the end, eventually cut bait and run.

But not them, not the freaks.

They, they themselves, would emerge triumphant and victorious.

And so at last, the grand final declaration was proclaimed. Not written on any stone tablets or logged in any official documentary ledgers, but etched deeply onto their hearts and souls and minds for all of eternity:

_The _Freaks_ Shall Inherit the Earth._

Translation:

_Evil cannot possibly win forever._

* * *

Act 2

The Main Event

or

Justice is Finally Served

or

The Drowning of the Dickweed

They settled into their seats.

The ladies on either side of the gentleman, dressed in their Sunday best.

Popcorn shared all around.

As they took in the show.

The entertainer himself was a very strong individual. And very determined.

They were quite impressed.

He gave it his all in this his most grand and final masterpiece.

In dying.

Before graciously bowing out to a final round of thunderous applause (read here, cold silence and dark glares), he managed to throw out one last brilliant, eloquently worded speech.

_Ahhh!_

_Please!_

_Hate you, hate you, hate you!_

Then with a generous consideration to the preferences of his rapt audience, he allowed his amazing stage presence and aplomb to speak for itself in ways that mere mortal words could never fully convey his deep and meaningful finale outpouring.

Accompanied by well-timed thunks and rounded burbles.

It was truly a performance greatly appreciated by all in attendance.

Who gazed in awe at the spectacle before them and exchanged broad smiles of enjoyment with each other.

It was a heck of a show.

The boy was a star.

* * *

Act 3

Epilogue

or

The Aftershow

or

The TellTale Meep

After it was over, they turned off the water and let the man himself continue to float in his watery final resting place.

Jimmy Darling walked 'round and 'round the tank slowly, staring the pale creature within.

The thrill and the excitement was gone, drained out of him along with his meager store of energy and dwindling reserves of strength.

The man had had to pay for his crimes.

And for the sins of all the wicked who had struck out against them over the years. And the deluge of crap that had been poured down upon them in spades during the last several months.

It had all been put to pay.

And now in the end, in the empty stillness of their irreversible act, Jimmy felt, not for the last time, a disquieting chill in his marrow.

Now that Dandy Mott's price had been paid, what price was left for _him_?

He stood and considered the question and shivered in the mild Florida winter.

He had no answer.

Not yet.

But cutting through the deafening silence, he thought he heard something.

A faint, drifting sound.

_Meep._

He cocked his head this way and that, looking around shrewdly to get a good fix on it.

But it faded further away from him as if caught away on some sighing zephyr.

He waited a while longer for it to return.

But it did not.

He eventually decided it was the ghost of his weird little friend, biding him to move onward.

Wishing him safe journeys. Wishing him absolution. Wishing him peace.

_I hope _you're_ at peace, Meep. I'm sorry I couldn't save you. Tell the others I miss them._

And then Jimmy Darling left the big top for the final time without looking back.

In the gloom of the floating dust motes, in the quiet that reined in the main tent of Fraulein Elsa Mars' Cabinet of Curiosities, few sounds could be heard.

The rhythmic chirp of crickets.

An ocassional gulurp of water.

And another sound, hidden away in the backstage dimness. A trembly, desperate sound barely heard for what it was.

"Meep?"

* * *

**So, did I give you chills? Boy I sure hope so.**

**And if I didn't, well, better luck for me next time then, yeah?**

**And how did you like the ghost of Meep, played by the mutilated and now abandoned Stanley?**

**Thanks to brigid1318, Jurana Keri, and The Cry-Wank Kid, for surviving through these last awful chapters. Gosh, I'm totaled. And you all are amazing. :)**

**And that's the end of this story. Oh, what's that you say? The show finale itself isn't over? You know what, you're absolutely right, it's not. But the eight year later ending just doesn't seem to fit in this story, now does it? **

**Especially not when I've decided to try to span the gulf between the bizarre popcorn scene and the domestic bliss scene. **

**Interested?**


End file.
